


only bought this dress so you could take it off (i don't want you like a best friend)

by intergaylactic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Past Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Petyr Baelish is His Own Warning, also i have never read the books and never finished the show, also i love arianne, also some of this is autobiographical have fun figuring out what, also talla seems sweet so i monopolized her for my own purposes, anyway have fun !!, anyway sometimes sansa gets to explore her sexuality and it's nice, both v useful tags tbh, but also like westeros but 21st century, so im sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25803451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intergaylactic/pseuds/intergaylactic
Summary: It still feels too personal and strange of a question. "Hi, Margaery, we’ve never actually met, but my friend Arianne said you would pretend to be my girlfriend for a night so that my mum’s old friend will stop trying to date me? What colours should we coordinate with?" The entire idea is completely absurd, no matter how many times Arianne has assured Sansa that it won’t be.
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 83
Kudos: 248





	1. sansa has a problem

Sansa Stark has sworn off men. 

She doesn’t think this is unreasonable. In fact, she would argue that it’s the most reasonable decision she’s made in the past two years - or, at least, it feels like it is. The relentlessly positive affirmations that appear on her phone twice a day tell her otherwise, but she remains convinced of it. Swearing off men is the best thing she’s done for herself in a good long while, a brilliant act of self care. 

Until, of course, baelish swoops in to ruin her life. 

Baelish - sorry,  _ Petyr _ \- comes round the stark house for tea towards the end of the summer break. He’s been coming round for tea the rest of the summer break as well, her mother feeling obligated to let him in each time he appears on their doorstep. 

“It’s work! He’s a colleague!” Catelyn will say, though she’s also frowning. “We need to be polite.” 

And, though he does nothing to hide his displeasure, Sansa’s father will open the door for  _ Petyr  _ to come sweeping into the foyer of the stark home, all smiles and twinkling eyes. He will give Catelyn a lingering kiss on the cheek that Sansa’s father doesn’t care for at all, and then put his arms around Sansa like they’re old friends. Sansa maneuvers out of his way if she can, feigning giggles and smiles as if this is a joke they’re both in on. Catelyn will lead Baelish into the living room the moment he nears her daughter, her smile leaving her face the second he isn’t looking at her. 

When Baelish comes over for tea in the mid-august heat, however, he manages to do something even more disastrous than usual. Sansa has managed to get herself trapped on the back patio with Baelish and her mother, both of their tablets out and a series of files laid out neatly on the glass table between them. She supposes that Baelish is, ostensibly, there for business. He doesn’t talk about business, though, when he asks about her love life for the ninth time that summer (in explicit terms, that is.) 

“How has summer love been treating you this year, Sansa?” Baelish asks this after taking a sip of his tea, like he’s just been thinking about it and not planning this question out the moment Sansa got corralled into sitting out on the patio with him. 

Sansa shrugs, pursing her lips. Her mother is decidedly not looking at her, but is watching Baelish with the kind of simmering anger that Sansa and her siblings can usually sense from a mile away. Baelish either can’t tell how angry he’s made her mother or knows she can do nothing about it without endangering the project their department is working on, and so keeps his keen eyes on Sansa. Sansa doesn’t want to keep talking anymore. 

“It’s been fine,” she says, because that’s what she always says when Baelish asks her a question these days. She isn’t the same thirteen year old he could keep chatting away for hours anymore, and she wonders how he doesn’t know that. 

“Just fine? i suppose that could be worse,” Baelish muses, and Sansa thinks about smashing his teacup over his head to make herself feel better. She can’t tell what would be worse: if Baelish is doing this because he’s oblivious, or if he  _ does  _ know what her “love life” has looked like as of late, and simply doesn’t care. “Still looking for that special someone, hmm?”

“No, not really,” Sansa says, fingers digging into her lap. Baelish smiles at her, but it's terrible. She thinks about smashing his teacup again. 

“A shame, really - that such a pretty girl would have such rotten luck with love. Perhaps the right person is just under your nose, darling.” 

“Anyway, for the meeting this thursday -” Sansa's mother begins, putting a hand on the table to get Baelish's attention. 

“I’m seeing someone, actually.” 

Sansa doesn’t know why she says it. Maybe it’s something in the glint of Baelish's eyes that gives her pause, wanting to build up a wall of excuses between the two of them. Maybe it’s the pity that flashes over her mother’s face, or the thought of being all alone when she retreats from this, hurrying back up to her room to close the door and breathe on her own. Maybe she’s just feeling particularly spiteful today. 

Regardless, Baelish and her mother both whip their eyes back toward Sansa, who feels an instant jolt of panic. Maybe this wasn’t - 

“Oh really?” Baelish's eyebrows raise, comical in their gentility, and his surprise steels Sansa's nerves. 

“Really.” 

“I - Sansa?” Her mother’s surprise is somewhat more mollifying, but Sansa knows she can’t back down now. She shares a hasty smile with her mum before turning back to Baelish, whose eyebrows are still raised in that absurd parody of polite shock. There’s nothing polite about Petyr Baelish, and he and Sansa both very well know that.

“Yes, for a little while now. It’s been pretty nice.”

“A good change in fortune?” Baelish asks. 

Sansa smiles, but there’s no warmth in it and she knows that. She tries to school her face into something warmer for him, then remembers the stupid reminder that had opened on her phone screen just last night:  _ you owe no one a watered down version of yourself _ . Sansa tries to smile like her sister instead - that is, a bit like a predator. 

“Yeah, a  _ very  _ good change. Hoping to keep it that way.” 

“And where did you two meet?” 

“School,” Sansa says flippantly. She scrambles for something, anything, and lands on the memory of a friend from college. “Social science major.” She hopes Ynys can’t sense how stupid she’s being from across the country. 

“A King’s University student then? You  _ must  _ invite this mystery suitor to Garlan and Leonette’s wedding!” It’s a challenge, Sansa can tell.

“We’ll be there,” she agrees.

* * *

“ _ We’ll be there _ ?! What was I thinking?” 

“I don’t know,” Arya says, lounging on Sansa’s bed. Sansa shoos her sister’s muddy converse off of her bedsheets, and Arya grumbles but complies. 

“I just wanted him to stop talking! What am I supposed to do, find a boyfriend?”

“I thought you swore off men?” Jeyne has her chin cupped in both hands, and she’s frowning. Sansa tries not to mirror it with one of her own. 

“I did,” Sansa sighs. 

“But then how are you going to have a date for the wedding?”

Arya barks out a laugh, and both girls look to her, Jeyne clearly straining to see Arya’s feet swinging off the side of the bed in the corner of her discord screen. 

“What could possibly be funny about this?” Sansa asks, glaring. 

Arya snorts, levelling her with an amused half-smile. “Just take a girl? How have you not figured that out?” 

“I specifically said I was going out with a social science major -”

“And there’s not a single woman in the social sciences who will date you? Fucking  _ please _ ,” Arya scoffs. 

“I - Arya, I don’t -” Sansa stammers, taken aback. Take a girl to the wedding? Just like that? It was too easy of a solution, Arya made it sound so much simpler than it was. 

“Or you could ask fuckin’ Ned or somebody to go with you, just for the night,” Arya continues, still giving Sansa that knowing, lopsided smile. “I have his number, he’s still hoping I’ll let him take me to his parents’  _ summer home _ .” Arya says this with such distaste that Sansa can’t bring herself to remind her that their parents also have a “summer home.” 

“Ned Dayne? Isn’t he still in high school?” Sansa asks, frowning harder. 

“Nope! He’s officially a high school graduate - isn’t that fantastic? Two months out of the twelfth grade, practically a grown man.” 

Sansa looks back to Jeyne, who shrugs at her through her laptop screen. “Don’t look at me - certifiable virgins don’t get a say in other people’s love lives.” 

Sansa sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.  _ How has summer love been treating you this year, Sansa?  _ She sighs again, looking up. 

“This is a godsdamn nightmare.”

“You’re absolutely right about that,” Arya replies with a snort. 

* * *

  
  


Sansa doesn’t think about this debacle when she packs her things, or when she has a send off dinner of pancakes with Jon and Bran, or when she gets in her car with Arya in the passenger seat. She doesn’t think about it all the way to King’s University. 

She gets a text the second day of the autumn semester that jolts her back into her previous anxious spiral. 

  
  


**talla <333: ** pls pls tell me youre going to the wedding next month????

  
  


Sansa flops onto her back on her bed with a groan. She loves Talla dearly, she really does, but  _ god  _ she had enjoyed not thinking about this. 

  
  


**me:** yeah, I’ve been invited. you too?

**talla <333: ** yeah, family duty thing

**talla <333: ** also lee is an angel, i have to go for her

**talla <333: ** but this is a nightmare. elinor’s gonna be there!!!

  
  


Sansa debates for about three seconds before calling Talla, leaving her phone face-up on the bed next to her, unable to bring herself to sit up. 

“Hey!” Talla’s voice, like a disney character, rings from her phone’s speakers. “You okay?” 

Sansa sighs deeply, as that seems like a good place to start. “You know Petyr Baelish? Well . . .”

* * *

Talla, unbeknownst to Sansa, calls Ynys, who calls Arianne, who offers her a beautifully simple solution:

**Arianne ✪:** just murder him. 

* * *

“You’re a big girl now, Sansa, homicide can’t be too far outside your wheelhouse,” Arianne insists as she dabs lipstick on in the reflection of Sansa’s microwave. 

“I’m more worried about how Baelish turning up dead might hurt my mum’s current project,” Sansa says, rolling her eyes. 

Arianne, being Arianne, has determined that the best way to fix Sansa’s problems is for the lot of them to go out and figure out a plan with plenty of schnapps. “Work and fun aren’t mutually exclusive,” Arianne said with a wink that still, after years of friendship, somehow makes Sansa’s heart flutter a bit. This means that a small army of everyone Arianne could round up in King’s Landing is in Sansa’s apartment, Sansa standing in the middle of it all in her pyjamas, a little lost. Her philosophy elective readings are still open on her couch, and she glances at them a little wistfully. 

“Look, babe,” Arianne says, recalling Sansa’s attention. “Baelish is an asshole, and  _ someone  _ is going to have to make it clear to him that trying to groom his friends’ children is fucking weird and liable to get him murdered one day.” When Sansa just shakes her head, Arianne sighs. “ _ But _ . If getting him off your back is all you really want right now, then we’re just gonna have to find you somebody to take to Lee’s wedding. A  _ woman  _ somebody.”

“How do all of you make this sound so simple?” Sansa demands, though she complies when Arianne steers her to her bedroom and starts rifling through her dresser drawers. “‘Just date a girl, no problem’?”

“Because it isn’t a problem?” Arianne says, one sharp eyebrow raised. “Also, some of us have never had an issue with the idea of kissing girls, Sansa.” 

“Shit - I mean, yeah, it’s not weird for  _ you _ ,” Sansa amends quickly. “But I’m not - I don’t - you know? I don’t feel . . . like that.” She’s almost immediately embarrassed by her own stammering, certain that she sounds like a complete and utter prat talking about lesbianism like some kind of mystical, unknowable art. 

“Don’t knock it til you try it, sweetie,” Arianne says with a smirk, tossing a black miniskirt at Sansa, who fumbles to catch it. “Besides, you don’t have to  _ actually  _ experiment with anybody. You can just ask someone to go with you and pretend. Baelish doesn’t have to know any better.” 

“Just - just ask someone? To pretend to be my girlfriend?” Sansa frowns. “Isn’t that a bit . . . weird? Or creepy? Like, isn’t that what craigslist is for?” 

Arianne snorts. She’s moving through Sansa’s room on a mission, and grins wickedly when she finally digs out a pair of fishnets from the back of a drawer. Sansa only bought them for a Halloween costume, but she can already tell from the look on Arianne’s face that it won’t matter. 

“Your legs would look so hot in these, I swear,” she says, handing them to Sansa. “And I mean that in the most platonic way possible. Also, it’s not creepy! It’s like a more planned version of a girl at a club pretending to be meeting you there because some fucking ass won’t leave you alone. This is foundational girl code material, babe. Now get dressed.” And with that, Arianne sweeps out of the room and closes the door behind her with a decisive snap. 

Sansa carefully pulls on the fishnets, although she feels a bit silly in them, like a kid playing dress up. She’s glad Arianne picked out a plain blue shirt for her, nothing mesh or transparent at all. She’s unbraiding her hair when Arianne knocks on the bedroom door. 

“Hey, I was just thinking - I think I know someone who would be perfect for this.”

“Yeah?” Sansa asks, nervous. 

“Yeah. Margaery Tyrell. Do you know her?” 


	2. sansa's hot date at the rose garden

It’s been a week since Arianne concocted this plan, and Sansa has yet to call or text Margaery Tyrell. 

It still feels too personal and strange of a question.  _ Hi, Margaery, we’ve never actually met, but my friend Arianne said you would pretend to be my girlfriend for a night so that my mum’s old friend will stop trying to date me? What colours should we coordinate with?  _ The entire idea is completely absurd, no matter how many times Arianne has assured Sansa that it won’t be. 

_ “Seriously, Sans, it’s fine. She bearded for Renly Baratheon for almost all of high school, so she’s experienced! And this is basically just reverse bearding!”  _

Still, Sansa gets ill just thinking about having that phone call with Margaery. She hasn’t even had the guts to look her up on social media, in case that felt like background research or something. 

Arya, who has begun her normal uni routine of simply waltzing into Sansa’s apartment whenever she feels like it, is on Arianne’s side - something she’s made abundantly clear since she showed up at Sansa’s door an hour ago with take out. 

“She seems nice - seriously, just go for it. Look, here’s her instagram -” Arya holds up her phone, which Sansa quickly turns away from with a tiny squeak. “Okay, what the fuck?”

“I - I don’t want to do  _ reconnaissance  _ on her!” Sansa hisses. 

Arya is silent for a moment before she finally scoffs, “Oh this is fucking ridiculous.” She picks up Sansa’s phone and dials a number before Sansa even realizes what she’s doing. 

“Stop, wait!” Sansa lunges for the phone, but Arya holds it just out of reach. She turns on the speaker, and the rings are loud in Sansa’s otherwise quiet apartment. She’s still practically on top of her sister, scrabbling for the phone, when a voice on the other end of the line says, “Hello?” 

Arya cackles into the couch as Sansa pushes herself just a few inches further and smacks the phone screen, ending the call. 

“Arya, what the hell?!” she demands, as her sister gives her back her phone. 

“Text her!” Arya says, grinning. “Tell her you pressed ‘call’ by accident, but you’re in a lecture or something.”

“I hate you,” Sansa mutters, nervously tapping out a message for Margaery Tyrell. Gods, her voice is lovely, almost melodious. Maybe Sansa is losing her mind. 

**me:** Hi, sorry about that!! I’m in a lecture right now, didn’t mean to call you!! Arianne Martell gave me your number? This is Margaery Tyrell? 

“Is that too many exclamation points?” Sansa worries on her lower lip with her fingernail, staring down at the message. 

“Holy shit, just send it!”

“Okay!” Sansa hits send, and immediately panics. “Wait, oh, gods no, hold on -”

**me:** I’m Sansa Stark, by the way!! 

“You are just so . . .” Arya trails off as Sansa’s phone gives a soft chime, and both girls peer down at the screen, curiosity taking over any argument that was brewing. 

**suggested: Margaery?:** Hi Sansa! Arianne mentioned that you’d call, so dw I’ve been expecting you haha

**suggested: Margaery?:** And yes this is Margaery <33

**suggested: Margaery?:** Did you want to meet up sometime this week? She didn’t explain the whole story, said it would be better coming from you

“Say something!” Arya encourages, her previous irony slipping to reveal her genuine intrigue. 

“I don’t know what to say!” 

“Just, like, say yes! She seems nice.” 

“Gods, okay,” Sansa says, quickly messaging Margaery back. 

**me:** sometime this week would be great! I don’t have anything besides class, so whenever is most convenient for you! 

“I have got to stop with the exclamation points,” Sansa murmurs, and Arya nods in agreement. 

“It’s getting a bit weird.”

“Shut up,” Sansa elbows her sister’s shoulder, but their attention is instantly drawn back to her phone with another chime. 

**suggested: Margaery?:** Wonderful - is Friday afternoon alright? Around three? We could meet at the rose garden? 

**me:** that would be great!! 

“Look at you, you survived a whole text conversation!” Arya beams in a way that lets Sansa know she’s only half-joking, a little real pride in her smile. “And wow, she even wants to meet at that tea place you like. Maybe you guys are actual soulmates.” 

“Shut up,” Sansa says again, pushing Arya backwards onto her couch. “Can we just start the movie?” 

Sansa only sees the responding text as she’s brushing her teeth that night after Arya has left, and it both reassures her and makes her wildly nervous. 

**suggested: Margaery?:** Brilliant 💖💖💖

* * *

  
  


The Rose Garden is a teashop in the section of King’s University that begins to blend from campus back into regular city. It’s quaint and old in a way that feels less like an artifact and more like something that’s travelled directly from the past, not touched by aging. The entire place is brimming with flowers, and Sansa’s favourite part is the greenhouse on the roof. 

The greenhouse is where she is asked to meet Margaery. 

Sansa comes straight from a medieval art tutorial, so she’s combing through her hair as she walks down the street, trying to look presentable after her ridiculously early slate of classes. She considers dabbing on lipgloss, then dismisses the idea as trying too hard, and then decides to wear it as something for herself rather than as a performative act of femininity, all in the time it takes her to walk down the last block to the teashop. 

She takes the stairs up to the roof gradually, working through the breathing exercises she has down pat after two years of relying on them. She smooths out her skirt as she reaches the top of the staircase, and turns into the doorway of the greenhouse. It’s nearly empty besides an older man typing away on his laptop, and a young woman at a table near the back corner, looking out the window onto the streets of King’s Landing. 

Sansa isn’t sure what she expected, but Margaery Tyrell might be even prettier than her voice. Her face is soft in a delicate, statue-esque way, like the curves of a greek marble bust, and her eyes are sharp and clever. She has one leg folded neatly over the other, and Sansa is reminded of poised princesses and royalty on tv. She is exactly the type of girl to make Sansa immediately do a once-over of herself in her head, searching for flaws to hide. 

As she nears the table, Margaery Tyrell looks up at her like she has thought of nothing else but seeing her since they texted. Sansa can’t tell if it's a practiced charm, but if it is, it’s very convincing. “You must be Sansa!” 

“Yes - uh, yeah, Margaery?” 

“Mhmm, that’s me - gods, Arianne didn’t warn me how cute you are,” Margaery says with a little laugh, and Sansa feels herself flush right down to her toes. “Sit, sit, I haven’t ordered anything yet - just got here.” 

Sansa sits, and she crosses her legs, somehow feeling infinitely less poised than the woman across from her. “I’m glad you didn’t have to wait too long?”

“Oh, gods no, it’s all good,” Margaery says. She has this little, easy smile that hasn’t left her mouth since she greeted Sansa. “So, right to business then?” 

Sansa nods, her mouth drying up as she realizes precisely what that means. “Uh, right. So. What did Arianne tell you?”

“Only that you need help with, uhm - hold on, I have the message she sent.” Margaery scrolls through her phone for a moment before reading aloud, “‘She needs a fake wedding date to get a creep to stop harassing her, I’m invoking girl code.’” Sansa and Margaery both laugh quietly, though Sansa’s comes out a bit stuttered. “Can I ask about details?” 

“It’s um - it’s Leonette Fossoway’s wedding next month? It’s a family thing that I have to go to - and I love Lee, obviously, and so I  _ want  _ to go - but - do you maybe know Petyr Baelish?” It might be a far-fetched hope that Margaery will already be familiar, but Petyr has made a habit of connecting himself to established, powerful families, and from what Sansa has heard during her parents’ parties, the Tyrells certainly seem like just his type. 

Margaery’s eyes narrow. “I do, a little. Though, quite frankly, it’s still more than I’d like. Is he . . .?”

“The one that won’t leave me alone? Yeah.” Sansa sighs, wondering how much of this Margaery really needs to know. “He works with my mum, and he’s an old sort-of friend of hers . . . so he’s at our house a lot, and he’s always been a bit - you know, forward?”

“For how long? If you don’t mind my asking,” Margaery adds, holding up her hands in a quick, placating gesture. Her manicure is lovely, Sansa notices. She tucks her hands below the table, settling them into her lap, to hide the chipping glitter polish she keeps forgetting to take off. She can’t tell if focusing more on how she feels inadequate across from Margaery or on explaining her history with Baelish is worse. 

“Um, since I was . . . sixteen? Fifteen? He’s just . . . you know?” Sansa hates it, but she can’t stop the awkward squeak of her voice as she speaks, trying to avoid going into detail. 

“Oh, I think I do know,” Margaery says. She’s not smiling anymore. “And I’m actually invited to that wedding, too, so it’d be nice to have myself a date as well. Maybe get my grandmother to stop worrying about taking care of myself and my love life,” she laughs, clearly trying to soften the mood. Sansa laughs along, too. 

“You know Leonette?” Sansa asks, as a server approaches their table. 

“Oh, yes,” Margaery says with a grin. “I make a habit of getting to know my future sister-in-laws.” 

“Hmm?” Sansa asks, brow furrowing. 

“Her fiancee, Garlan. He’s my older brother.” 

“Oh -  _ oh _ . I’m so sorry, I’ve only met him once or twice -” Sansa starts, hurriedly trying to backtrack. 

Margaery giggles, and it’s like music. God, she’s so pretty it’s fucking unfair. Sansa catches herself wondering if she can teach herself to scrunch her nose up like that when she laughs, if it’ll have the same effect. “It’s alright, I was just teasing. Garlan has kept out of the Tyrell spotlight for years, he’d probably be flattered that you didn’t think of his family first and him second.” 

“Oh,” Sansa says. Garlan did always seem kind and absurdly normal when Leonette introduced him at a Christmas party, especially in comparison to some of the other political or industry dynasties in attendance. Sansa had always just thought of him as Lee’s boyfriend and the poster child for dreamy firefighters everywhere. 

She and Margaery order, and the moment the servant sweeps away to get their tea, Margaery turns her full attention back on Sansa. 

“So, if we’re going to be in a months-long relationship for a night, as far as Mr. Baelish is concerned, then we’re going to need to get to know each other. Tell me about yourself, Sansa Stark.” 

* * *

  
  


Having Margaery Tyrell as your “reverse beard”, as Arianne insists on calling it, apparently means having an instant best friend. Like, a really good best friend, too. Sansa isn’t entirely convinced that Margaery hasn’t turned friendship into a calculated art. She’s the kind of friend who knows your coffee order and the term assignments you’re working on, can joke about your profs and remembers your favourite movies. The second time Margaery and Sansa hang out, Margaery volunteers to kill the bug in Sansa’s bathroom. It’s wildly intimidating. 

She was a political science and economics double major in undergrad, Sansa has learned, but found the economics half of her degree unbearable. She’s spent the past two years working internships, helping to run minor political campaigns in the Reach and King’s Landing, before returning to university for a master’s degree in political science. Her thesis is something about the long-term effects of capitalist industry on small towns, specifically agricultural communities, that Sansa found confusing when she first rattled off some of the talking points. (She’s promised to explain it properly sometime, over dinner. Sansa tries not to wonder when they’ll get around to it, and then tries not to wonder at her eagerness to have dinner with Margaery.) 

Their apartments are perfectly distanced so that The Rose Garden is the halfway point between them, meaning that they have met up there a few times since their first meeting. Sansa knows Margaery’s favourite order is the hibiscus tea and strawberry tart, and Margaery has a lemon cake and earl grey already waiting for Sansa the next time she arrives before her. 

“So, you guys are going to coordinate colours?” Arianne asks with a smirk as Sansa emerges from the changing room. She immediately wants to duck back behind the curtains to hide her blush. They are, Margaery insisted it would be cute, but she absolutely doesn’t need anyone to know about it. Sansa has been hoping they would show up in coordinating outfits and people would just assume it was an accident, which in retrospect is far too optimistic a hope. 

“Shut up,” she says, though there’s no bite to it. “And yes, we are.” 

“That’s so cute!” Talla is spinning around and around in a poofy pink dress, a mess of tulle floating up around her like a rosy cloud. “Gods, I love this one.” 

“It’s really nice with your hair,” Sansa remarks, giving Talla a soft smile. Talla beams at her. 

“You’re gonna spend the whole night doing this, though,” Arianne says with a snort. 

Talla shrugs, fluffing the skirts up with her hands. “I don’t see why that’s a problem.” 

“And anyway, we were talking about Sansa’s hot date,” Arianne says, and Sansa groans. This time she really does retreat back into the changing room, but Arianne follows her inside. 

“Arianne, please,” Sansa pleads. 

“You should try this one on,” Arianne says, hanging another dress on the rack next to Sansa with a click. “It’d look fucking good.” 

“I don’t know, I like this one,” Sansa says quietly, running her palms down the front of the dress she’s tried on. It’s a simple chocolate brown, and the soft cotton sits nicely on her hips, not too tight and not too loose. 

“Sans, it looks like something you’d wear to the Sept,” Arianne counters. When Sansa says nothing, she sighs. “If you  _ actually  _ like it, then go for it. But you don’t have to wear stuff like - well, you know.”

“I don’t,” Sansa replies softly, not looking at Arianne. She’s examining the cut of the dress in the mirror, the high neckline and the long sleeves. She doesn’t know why she does this, especially with Arianne: playing dumb about things she doesn’t want to think about, but saying enough that the other girl will keep pushing the subject. Her therapist would probably say she’s trying to outsmart her fears, and tricking herself into confronting them. Sansa mostly just feels as though it’s a form of self sabotage. 

“Stuff that’s like a precaution. You can wear stuff that’s nice, you don’t have to think about what it’ll  _ say _ . If anyone gives you a hard time, I’ll just send Tyene after them or something.” 

“Your little cousin is not going to -”

“My little cousin, and everyone else who  _ loves  _ you, will make sure you can wear whatever you want. That’s all.” Arianne reaches out slowly, gently, and lifts Sansa’s hair up, twisting it into a loose bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Sansa watches Arianne’s mouth twitch into a smile in the reflection of the two of them. “Although with your hair like this, it is pretty cute.” 

“You didn’t tell me Margaery was so pretty,” Sansa says, trying desperately to change the subject. She knew exactly what Arianne was talking about when she said ‘anyone’ who might give Sansa a hard time, and she wasn’t interested in bringing  _ him  _ into any changing rooms again. 

Arianne’s smile turns brighter as she lets Sansa’s hair drop, cascading down her back as a familiar weight. “She’s a Tyrell, what were you expecting?” 

“I hardly know any Tyrells,” Sansa protests. “I’ve never even  _ been  _ to the Reach. They’re not the political family I’ve had to worry about.” 

“And they still aren’t,” Arianne says. “They’re all absurdly nice. It might even seem suspicious at times, but that’s really just what they’re like. If you’d ever met Marg’s grandmother, you’d know why they’re all so well-mannered though.” 

“Ugh, you set me up with someone a thousand times out of my league,” Sansa whines. “And she’s gonna look so pretty in green, too.” 

“Sansa Stark has a crush on Margaery!” Arianne cackles, and Sansa flushes even deeper red. 

“I do not! I - I only think - she’s really  _ pretty _ , Arianne, gods! You know I’m not -!” For some reason, Sansa finds herself choking on the last sentence, her protests trailing off into quiet panic. 

“I know, I know. But the prettier the reverse beard, the more Baelish will understand you can do better than him,” Arianne says with a smirk. “Besides, Marg thinks you’re adorable. Won’t shut up about it.” 

“ _ What _ ?” 

Arianne covers her mouth, but her eyes give her away - nothing about Arianne is ever accidental. “Oh no, did I just say that? Forget I said anything.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Sansa moans, pressing her forehead against the mirror; it’s pleasantly cool against her flushed skin. “And she was probably just being nice. Have you seen her hair?”

“Have you seen yours? I promise she’s not just being nice. Try this one on,” Arianne says again, brushing her fingers along the dress she’s hung up.

“Fine!”

“Need me to unzip you -?”

“No! No, it’s fine -” Sansa pulls away from the mirror with a snap, and reaches behind her to try and cover the zipper. “I’ve got it.”

Arianne’s eyebrows have shot up, but she starts to back out of the change room. “Okay, lovely, see you in a minute, babe.”

Sansa lets her hand fall from the back of the dress when Arianne sweeps the curtains closed, and turns back to her reflection. Gods, she doesn’t get how Arianne can be so flippant about stuff like that. Even Talla and Ynys are so casual about just undressing in front of one another, laughing when Sansa politely looks away. Surely it’s not odd to feel like she’s intruding on something when that happens? She waits for the burning blush in her face to calm before slipping out of the brown dress and wriggling into the one Arianne left hanging for her. 

When she steps back out of the change room, Talla and Arianne glance over at her and immediately go quiet. 

“What?” Sansa glances down at herself; she didn’t even think this was too revealing, despite Arianne’s claims about the first dress. “Did I - did I put it on wrong?”

“Sansa, that is the one you’re getting,” Arianne says, her eyes sparkling. 

“Gods, Sans,” Talla agrees, nodding fervently. “You  _ have  _ to.”

“Yeah?” Sansa touches the bare skin of her shoulders, running her hands down along the volume of the skirt. “For sure?” 

“Margaery’s gonna lose her mind a little bit,” Arianne says. 

Sansa buys the dress. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i've hashed out most of the finer plot beats in the fic, so the next update will probably ?? be sooner ??? also y'all have been so sweet in your response to this fic, i'm glad you're enjoying it <3 <3 <3
> 
> (also arianne is gonna have a side plotline and maybe a little standalone companion one shot, i'm living for this)
> 
> once again, i'd like to repeat that i never finished the show and haven't read the books (although i'm planning to). so i'm sort of going on this journey with the wiki pages and fanon to guide me, and stuff will probably be a bit messy bc of that. i'm playing fast and loose with some ages/familial relations bc i'm trying to have fun while avoiding incest and uncomfy age gaps, so i apologize if i mess up any canon characters/dynamics that you love. feel free to inform me of stuff i've misconstrued, bc there's a lot of tone and subtext that isn't communicated through wiki page summaries of events. 
> 
> tysm for reading, if you wanna yell you can hmu @ thatsjustfangtastic on tumblr <3 <3


	3. sansa has to retreat to a braavosi restaurant washroom

The few weeks leading up to the wedding are whizzing past Sansa as she spends more time with Margaery. They talk on the phone a lot; Margaery is always brimming with encouragement and the perfect amount of sarcasm to make a shitty day of classes feel a bit better, a bit more behind you. Sansa, reassured adamantly that it’s really no trouble, has gotten into the habit of texting Margaery when she’s getting ready for bed until Margaery opts to call her and talk for a while. 

“Arianne says I’m going to love your dress,” Margaery says, and Sansa could curse Arianne Martell to the depths of the underworld. She collapses backward across her couch, and presses the phone closer to her ear. 

“Uh, yeah, it’s nice. Arianne picked it out, actually.” 

“A good sign,” Margaery says with a laugh. “She’s got a sixth sense for styling people.” 

Sansa thinks back to the miniskirt that first week back, the looks her friends had given her as she emerged from her bedroom. She will give Arianne that much. 

“And for interfering in their lives,” Sansa says without thinking. 

Margaery just laughs, which eases the instant panic that seized Sansa’s chest when she realized what she’d said. “Gods, she’s always been like that. Has she ever told you about the time she tried to elope with my brother?”

“Garlan?” Sansa asks. 

Margaery snorts, and it’s the kind of human sound that reassures Sansa she isn’t talking to a goddess. It’s also very cute when Margaery does it. “No, Willas. Also, she was ten, and Willas about eighteen. He didn’t realize what she intended until they pulled up outside a courthouse - she just gave him the address, put it in his phone.”

“No way,” Sansa laughs. She hadn’t known Arianne when they were that young, but gods if Arianne and Arya had known each other back then . . .

“They went to the movies instead, apparently. I hear she had a nice time. Moved on from him within the week.” 

Sansa giggles, and Margaery echoes it. There’s a quiet pause in the call, and Margaery breaks it softly. 

“So, I have to be at the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night, because of the whole bridal party thing. The two sides of Lee’s family may kill each other, so she and Garlan are planning on having a fun little post-rehearsal rehearsal dinner afterwards. I was wondering if you’d like to come?”

“Um . . . I mean, are you sure? I really wouldn’t want to intrude, or . . . I mean, would they know that we’re not . . .?” Sansa stumbles off into silence again, that sentence still evading her. 

“Oh, Lee told me to invite you! She and Garlan know what’s going on with us, and she says the more the merrier.”

“They know?” Sansa squeaks out, more than a little embarrassed. She can’t help but feel like a child, hiding behind an older, prettier girl’s skirts from the grabbing hands of Mr. Baelish. 

“Oh, well, not the whole thing. The Baelish situation seemed . . . personal.” There’s a pause, and Sansa hopes Margaery doesn’t expect her to be able to say anything. Margaery carries on almost immediately, and Sansa lets out the breath she was holding. “I told them Arianne set us up as a way for you to keep some guy from asking you - you know men, incapable of taking a hint!” Margaery says this in a ridiculous mimicry of her own voice, and Sansa lets out a nervous giggle. “Anyway, they know, and it’s fine. It’ll be fun, I promise, and Loras will be there!”

“Only if you’re sure it’s alright . . .” Sansa says, uncertain. 

“Absolutely! I can pick you up at four?” 

“Alright,” Sansa says, feeling a small smile inch its way across her face. “I’ll see you at four, then.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Well, that was miserable,” Loras says, tone flat. Margaery laughs, which lets Sansa know she can laugh, too. The three of them are standing in the parking lot of the dinner venue, watching the various Fossoways drive off into the evening. It’s nearing dusk, and the sky above King’s Landing is painted in gorgeous streaks of baby pink and gold. The parking lot feels a bit distant from the nearby traffic, like the twilight has settled in a quiet blanket over the few stragglers that remain. 

Margaery had picked Sansa up at precisely four o’clock, Loras driving because Margaery doesn’t bother keeping a car when she’s in King’s Landing. Loras is kind, though he took most of the drive to the dinner venue to loosen up a bit and start joking with Sansa. Somehow, Sansa had gotten roped into going to the rehearsal dinner itself  _ and  _ the post-rehearsal dinner dinner, Margaery passing on the message around noon. Sansa, having watched the two sides of the Fossoway family bicker and argue and nearly duel for the past three hours, quietly agrees with Loras: it  _ was  _ miserable. But Margaery flashes her a quick smile, and suddenly it seems like it was worth it. 

“Okay, so everyone here wants in on the post-rehearsal dinner dinner?” Garlan asks with a grin as he and Leonette emerge from the venue last. He’s just as friendly as Sansa remembers from all those Christmas parties, all broad smiles and strong arms around his fiancee the entire night. 

“We were thinking that Braavosi place on Third Avenue?” Leonette adds. She’s wearing a bright, glimmering smile, and Sansa is struck again by how clearly Leonette wears her love for Garlan. She can’t help but think about a different girl on the arm of a different man, who had thought that coldness and easy fury were the prices to be paid for love. Sansa is happy for Leonette, but her chest still twinges a bit every time she sees them, a moment of grief for what she had hoped she could fashion for herself with enough patience. She supposes not every man can be Garlan Tyrell. 

“You still wanna come, Sansa?” Leonette asks, turning that smile on her. “I know  _ that  _ was a lot to handle for one night.” 

Sansa feels everyone’s gazes turn to her, and she hopes her instinctive flush isn’t obvious in the fading twilight. “Um - yeah, Lee, I’d love to.” 

“Amazing!” 

The small crowd in the parking lot filter into their cars, Sansa trailing after Margaery and Loras to climb into the backseat of Loras’ car. Margaery grins at her as her brother turns the key in the ignition, and Sansa thinks once again of how unfairly pretty she is. 

“I hope that wasn’t too awful,” she says as they pull out of the parking lot, following the group of cars heading out to the Braavosi place Leonette mentioned. “The Fossoways can get a bit . . .”

“Ridiculous? Loud? Terrible?” Loras suggests, though he’s got a little smile playing on his face. He and Margaery, Sansa has learned, have forged their relationship with inside jokes and deadpan humour, so at this point in the night this kind of talk doesn’t surprise her at all, and neither does Margaery’s snort. 

“Gods, I can’t wait for the whole lot of them to be together at the actual wedding,” Loras continues. “It’s gonna be a nightmare. Someone might die at this wedding.”

“Then it’ll be a real party,” Margaery says. 

They snark back and forth on the drive to the restaurant, and Sansa lets herself sit in the quiet of the backseat, just observing. It’s nice and familiar, like sitting with Robb and Arya, or Bran and Arya, or Jon and Arya . . . Arya and any other Stark, for that matter. The playful teasing is something that reminds Sansa so much of home that she feels a bit of an ache for it. 

The restaurant is warm and cozy, and Leonette and Garlan order for the whole table. Sansa is next to Margaery at the end of the table, across from Olenna Tyrell, Margaery’s grandmother. She said very little throughout the rehearsal dinner, but Sansa watched her murmur softly to Garlan every so often, and watched her grandson’s laughter, sputtering through sips of wine. 

Olenna turns her eyes on Sansa, and she’s reminded of the sharpness that exists in Margaery’s gaze: not mean, but watchful, searching. Olenna’s are darker than her granddaughter’s, and after a long moment she gives Sansa a half-smile so knowing that Sansa feels a little unsettled. 

“I haven’t had reason to share a meal with a Stark in a long while,” Olenna says, still smiling, so Sansa forces herself to laugh softly. “Is your family doing well?” 

“Yes, they’re doing alright,” Sansa says, falling into the familiar role of Eldest Stark Daughter; she knows her script well. “My father’s been working on his reelection -” But she is interrupted almost immediately, left a bit confused. 

“Sansa, dear, you don’t need to do all  _ that _ ,” Olenna says with a wave of her hand. “I promise I’m not looking for a press release on his campaign. I was wondering about how the Starks are  _ really  _ doing.” 

Sansa is startled into silence for a moment, and is relieved that no one at the table seems to have stopped to listen. Olenna is still smiling, but gods if Sansa isn’t worried about an incoming attack. She searches for her voice, and swallows past the lump in her throat to speak. “I - um, I guess - we’re doing fine? My sister’s just started university, which is nice.”  _ “Which is nice”?  _ Gods she sounds like an idiot.

“Grandmother,” Margaery butts in, and Sansa almost jumps, “could we not interrogate my friends at dinner?” 

Olenna rolls her eyes. “I only want to get to know the girl - I promise, Sansa, that’s all,” she adds, turning her gaze back on Sansa, who almost wishes she wouldn’t. She can’t tell if Olenna wants something of her, which is what so many conversations about her family feel like. People always want something from her, to use against her father or her mother or her brothers. She is a treasure trove of Stark weaknesses, and she hates when people start searching for them. 

“Sansa is studying at KU,” Margaery says, and she brushes up closer to Sansa; her hand ghosts over Sansa’s under the table, and the warmth of it sends a rush of comfort through her chest. “She’s in art history.” 

“Oh?” Olenna smiles broader, and some part of it feels more genuine, less revelatory. “Willas minored in that, I believe. It was art history, wasn’t it? Lovely subject - do you like art, Sansa?” 

Sansa nods. She can feel Margaery watching the two of them, and somehow it is both stressful and reassuring. “Yeah, I loved it when I was younger. I’ve never been accomplished as an artist on my own, really, but I started studying it properly in high school and I - I really like it.” 

“Do you still practice?” Olenna’s eyes are sparkling in the low restaurant lighting, and the spices of the appetizers making their way around the table are reminding Sansa how little she ate at the rehearsal dinner, so nervous about being there at all. 

“Sometimes,” she admits, accepting a piece of soft, flaky bread from Margaery, which she carefully dips into a thick cream sauce that’s within her reach. It’s heavenly when she takes her first bite, and reminds herself to thank Leonette for craving this place. “Mostly painting, but I’ve been thinking of getting back into embroidery and that sort of thing. I used to do it with my mum when I was younger, but fell out of it in high school.” 

“What sort of things do you paint?”

“Landscapes, mostly.” Sansa thinks of her sketchbook, pages wilted with the weight of watercolours and acrylic. She should really get around to picking up some canvas, but she likes being able to carry her gallery around in her bag, to snap it closed with a single movement rather than leave her work sprawled out where anyone can see. “I’m gods-awful at painting people, so I don’t really try.” 

“I didn’t know you painted,” Margaery says, and Sansa can tell she’s teasing, but still feels a flash of guilt. 

“I wasn’t trying to hide it or anything,” she says. “Just . . . I don’t know. It doesn’t come up much.” 

“I’m sure they’re lovely,” Margaery says with a smile. She pours Sansa a glass of wine, and Sansa takes it gratefully. 

“So, a secretive painter has commandeered my granddaughter to keep foolish men at bay for a night,” Olenna says, and Sansa nearly drops her bread. 

Margaery looks just as surprised, though Sansa can’t help but think she wears it better. “I - I never told you -”

“Your brother thought I was having a nap,” Olenna explains with a glimmer in her eye, and that knowing sharpness is suddenly back in full force. “He should know by now that I don’t need  _ naps _ .” 

“I’m so sorry -” Sansa begins, unsure where she’s going to take that apology. She almost misses the chaos of the previous dinner; at least people were ignoring her there. 

“I never said I didn’t approve,” Olenna says. “In fact, I understand completely. I’ve met many Petyr Baelish’s in my life, and I wouldn’t want to bother with any of them, either.”

There’s a pause in which Sansa and Margaery are both trying to process what Olenna is saying. Olenna simply leans back in her seat, takes a delicate sip of her wine, and smiles. 

“How did you -?” Sansa begins. Her face is hot, and she pretends it might be the three whole sips of wine she’s had. It’s a comforting lie. (Which she isn’t supposed to be relying on anymore, admittedly, but she doesn’t think her therapist will mind her slipping up in emergencies like this.) 

“I’ve known Baelish for a long time, and I’ve seen him stare after your mother for what feels like even longer,” Olenna explains. “People talk, especially women in old highborn families. Petyr Baelish’s interest in the Stark girl sits comfortably between rumour and known secret, my dear.” 

Sansa stands up before she really even realizes what she’s doing, and she can feel Margaery’s hand on her forearm. She manages to mutter a quick “I have to go to the washroom,” before she’s making her way away from the table, trying not to feel eyes on her back. She locks herself in a bathroom stall and sits on the toilet lid, lowering her face into her hands. 

She knows this is ridiculous. Of course someone like Baelish, so concerned with connecting himself to wealthy, powerful people throughout Westeros, would be so broadly known for his creepiness. Sansa’s mum was a Tully from the Riverlands, growing up in the same stupid boarding schools and going to the same stupid galas as the other old highborn families and political dynasties across the regions. That Baelish was interested in her mum hadn’t even escaped Sansa’s notice as a child, so how can she be surprised that everyone who grew up with them knew as well? 

It’s Baelish’s interest in her that has her blood boiling, though.  _ Petyr Baelish’s interest in the Stark girl _ . The Stark girl. That’s all Sansa is, apparently, even to families she’s never met: just the eldest daughter of an old highborn family in the North, an offshoot of her father’s power and money. As a girl, Sansa may have liked this image, may have enjoyed being referred to by her family name, by her relevance to the North’s political landscape. She felt like a princess, like she could live in an old fairy tale. But now she knows what that kind of reputation will get her, who will be interested in her. She wants to be  _ Sansa _ , for gods’ sake. She wants to just be herself, worthy enough on her own, not a consolation prize for a man twice her age, and not a nameless Stark to be pitied for her bad luck with men. 

She waits until her breathing evens out, and then waits some more. Maybe if she waits long enough in this stall, everyone else will leave, and she’ll get to take the bus back to her apartment. 

The door of the washroom creaks open after a little while, and Sansa holds her breath as she hears footsteps echo on the floor. A pair of navy kitten heels stop outside her stall, and she could just about scream. The last person she wants to see her like this is -

“Sansa? Are you alright?” Margaery’s voice is soft through the door, and Sansa bites her lip. 

“I told everyone they could leave without us - Loras, too. We can take the bus back to your place, and I’ll head back to mine. We could call a cab, too, if you’d rather.” 

Sansa takes a deep breath, and pushes open the stall door. 

Margaery is standing in front of her now, and her eyes are wide with concern. “Are you alright?” 

Sansa nods, waiting a moment to speak; she doesn’t quite trust her voice yet. 

“I’m so sorry about all of that, I swear I didn’t know she knew, and - oh, gods, Sansa, I’m really sorry.” 

“It’s - it’s alright,” Sansa manages, and is relieved at how even her words are. 

“It’s not, she didn’t have to - she really didn’t mean to upset you, but she shouldn’t have done it.” 

Sansa watches Margaery in the reflection of the washroom mirror, and takes in the flash of anger in her eyes, the set line of her worried mouth. She has Sansa’s purse slung over her shoulder, and Sansa’s jacket over the other arm. 

Sansa turns around, and says, “Do you want to just take a cab?”

Margaery nods once, though she’s still frowning slightly. 

* * *

  
  


At the door to Sansa’s apartment building, Margaery remembers to give her back her purse. Sansa hasn’t had the heart to ask for it back during the entirely silent cab ride there. 

The night is clinging to them, thick and heady in that odd way King’s Landing nights do, as if nothing has really settled down. It’s the one thing Sansa always misses from the North when she’s away at school: the quiet that descends after sunset. 

“I was - I’m sorry. I’m just really sorry.” Margaery has apologized a few times, but eventually stopped as she seemed to notice the less and less Sansa responded to them. 

Sansa watches her for a moment, conscious of the cab waiting for Margaery on the curb. “Do you think - I mean, do people really think that? Do they know?” 

Margaery just shrugs, for once looking a little helpless. “A lot of people think they know a lot of things, Sansa. Especially around here.”  _ Especially in families like ours _ . She doesn’t say it, which is nice; Sansa is very tired of blaming her family name for all of her troubles. But it still hangs there, something else loud and distracting in the King’s Landing night. 

“I’ll see you around,” Sansa says, and quietly goes inside before Margaery can reply. It’s rude, but for once, Sansa Stark doesn’t have it in herself to think about the consequences of her actions. She’s tired, and wants very much to go to bed and not think about herself and her life for a little while. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have two more chapters written and being edited rn, so they'll be up soon!!! tysm for all the lovely feedback, and sorry if these updates are coming a little too fast lmao   
> anyway whoops!! i promise i'm not making olenna some kind of minor antagonist, bc i adore her, she's just frustratingly confrontational and i needed some drama 
> 
> have a nice night everybody i'm gonna pass out now <3 <3
> 
> if you'd like to yell hmu on tumblr @thatsjustfangtastic


	4. sansa tries not to panic

**margaery 🌹🌟:** I am really really sorry Sansa

**margaery 🌹🌟:** You alright?

* * *

  
  


**me:** yes, I’m alright

**me:** sorry about making such a scene

**margaery 🌹🌟:** No dw it wasn’t a problem

**margaery 🌹🌟:** Besides, if anyone should get to make a scene, it’s someone dealing with Baelish 

**margaery 🌹🌟:** Too soon?

* * *

  
  


**margaery 🌹🌟:** Rose Garden this Friday at three? 

  
  


* * *

  
  


**me:** sure, see you there

  
  


* * *

The knock on Sansa’s door comes at ten pm, which means it’s either her emergency take out finally arriving, or it’s Arianne coming to steal her away for another night on the town. 

Sansa opens the door to find Arya standing in the hall, glaring up at her. 

“Go back to your place,” Sansa groans, starting to close the door, but Arya jams her foot in the way before she can. 

“Gods, Arya, I could’ve broken your foot!” Sansa exclaims, yanking the door open and away from her sister’s foot. Arya just rolls her eyes. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure. Now  _ move _ ,” Arya says, pushing her way into Sansa’s apartment and making a beeline for the living room. Sansa sighs and closes the door, trailing after her sister. 

“I’m really not in the mood for this shit, I swear -” Sansa begins, but Arya turns around and levels her with a look that could rival their mum’s glares. 

“Fucking chill, Sans, I’m here for moral support,” Arya snaps. 

“For what?” 

“You’ve been moping! Arianne called me - and Talla, and Ynys and Jeyne.” Arya flops onto Sansa’s couch, and Sansa motions angrily for her to take her shoes off. With another eye roll, Arya complies. “They said you’ve been ridiculous since that dumb rehearsal dinner.” 

“The dinner wasn’t  _ dumb _ , it’s important to Lee and -” 

“And something happened that fucked with you, so I’m here on behalf of everybody in King’s Landing who likes you to see what it was and maybe to go stab it.” 

“Please don’t stab Olenna Tyrell, gods,” Sansa says, and regrets it immediately. She hasn’t spoken about the dinner to anyone, nor Olenna’s claim that more people than she was aware knew about her Baelish problem. 

“Olenna Tyrell? Isn’t she, like, a hundred years old?” Arya asks, her face scrunched in confusion. 

“She’s, like, seventy!” Sansa shoots back. “And it doesn’t matter!” 

“Well, if she said some stupid shit, then it does matter, actually!” 

“Oh, because suddenly it’s your job to  _ protect  _ my honour?!”

“Maybe it is, because you clearly won’t!”

“Gods, shut the hell  _ up _ , Arya! You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Look, Arianne said -”

“Oh?” Sansa can’t believe how much she’s yelling. Maybe she’s needed someone like Arya, who she feels okay snapping at, to unblock the dam that’s been holding these words in her head all week. Maybe it was only a matter of time, and she would’ve ended up screaming bloody murder at her poor takeout delivery person. “Arianne has another  _ fantastic  _ piece of advice for me? Maybe she should  _ tell me things  _ instead of just pushing me around like a little doll she can dress up and set up on stupid dates!” 

“Whoa, what did  _ Arianne  _ do?” 

Sansa takes a ragged breath, disoriented from the sudden wave of anger crashing through her. “I just - she must’ve  _ known  _ that people know.” She pushes a hand through her hair, out of her face, and tries to breathe deeper, calmer. 

“That people know what?” Arya peers up at her sister, and there’s a crinkle in between her eyebrows that Sansa knows well: it’s the same crinkle Arya gets when she’s looking at Jon as he leaves for another expedition, or at their father when he still lets Robert Baratheon come to Christmas dinner. Sansa chews her lower lip, looking away; she didn’t mean to make Arya that upset. “What happened at dinner?”

Sansa sits back on her couch, which Arya has since vacated, and sighs. “I . . .” She isn’t sure where to start, how to say this without accusing Arianne. “Everybody knows. About Baelish, and - and me. That he’s . . .  _ interested  _ in me.”  _ The Stark girl _ . Sansa wants to throw up. 

Arya takes a seat next to her on the couch, and Sansa turns her head to look at her sister. Arya’s brow is still pinched, and she looks a little lost. They haven’t done this properly in so long: comforting, normal sisterly affection. Sansa almost misses the days when Arya wouldn’t want to see her for weeks on end. It was lonelier, but also much simpler when it was just her, tucked away in her room with her cross-stitching and her paints and her fanciful romance novels. 

“Olenna Tyrell knows, for fuck’s sake. She asked me about it, said that everybody knew Baelish was interested in  _ the Stark girl _ .” Sansa spits it out, the words worse spoken aloud. “So they all know why Margaery and I are going to this stupid wedding, and - and they must know about - about  _ him _ , too.” 

She can’t say his name. Nearly a year and a half, and she can’t even say his name. 

“Then she’s an old windbag for saying that to your face,” Arya says, and Sansa’s eyes snap back to her sister’s face. “But nobody knows. Nobody’s looking at you, not anymore.  _ They  _ aren’t, anyway.” Arya’s reluctance to say their names is somehow reassuring to Sansa; maybe it isn’t cowardice. She doesn’t know how to feel about it, but maybe she should be embracing a bit of spite these days. 

“You’re still going to the wedding?” Arya asks. 

Sansa thinks of the dress she has hanging in her closet one room over, the looks on Talla and Arianne’s faces when they saw her in it for the first time. She thinks of Margaery’s eyes as she opened the stall door, Sansa’s jacket slung over her arm. She thinks of Leonette, beaming up at her fiancee as if the world could end and it wouldn’t matter, as long as she could see it while holding Garlan’s hand. 

“I don’t know.” 

* * *

The Rose Garden is quiet, despite it being a Friday afternoon. There’s a thunderstorm rumbling away outside, torrential downpour striking the sidewalk like the sounds of a clattering, marching army. Sansa is soaked when she slips inside, resisting the urge to wring out her hair. 

As she nears the table she and Margaery are usually at, she finds both Margaery and a lemon cake waiting for her. 

“Oh gods, you’re soaked! Here, do you want a sweater? I left it in my bag the other day, it might be a little big on you -” 

Sansa lets Margaery get up from the table and help twist her long, wet hair into a knot to avoid dripping, and drape a soft cream cardigan around her shoulders. Sansa is only in a thin long-sleeve, and wraps it around herself tightly. She lets Margaery order a large mug of earl grey for her before they both sit down, because it feels nice to have Margaery darting around like a graceful hummingbird; Sansa catches a whiff of her vanilla perfume as she hands her the sweater.

“Sansa,” Margaery says, and looks at her intently from across the table. “I am so, so sorry.” 

“It’s okay -” Sansa begins. 

Margaery’s soft mouth quirks into a half-frown, and she shakes her head. “She should never have put you on the spot like that, it was awful. She feels awful.”

“She does?” Sansa asks, skeptical. 

“Well . . . she certainly regrets it. I promise, she wishes she hadn’t done it. She quite liked you, actually,” she adds, and the little smile she wears when she says it leaves a little bloom of warmth unfurling in Sansa’s chest. 

“I . . . it’s alright. I mean, it wasn’t . . . great. But . . . don’t worry about it, I guess.”  _ Don’t worry about  _ me. 

“Are you still comfortable coming to the wedding? You don’t have to, and I can always just keep my distance if you decide to . . .” 

Margaery’s watching her with nervous eyes, and Sansa is struck by how much she wants her to never feel bad for anything again. Margaery, with her spare sweater and her nimble, hair-styling fingers, and her vanilla perfume. Carrying Sansa’s jacket and purse out of a restaurant while Sansa panics in the bathroom, waiting outside the stall for her. Winking at her from the front seat of Loras’ car, like a friend. Like a really, really excellent friend, who will sit on the phone with her to complain about her medieval art prof on a Friday night. 

The idea of that person thinking for a moment that she has wronged Sansa hurts acutely, a sharp, brief ache. 

Sansa cups her chin in one hand, balancing her elbow on the table, and sighs. “I still want to go to the wedding. With you.” 

It’s worth it for the smile that shines on Margaery’s face. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so this is gonna be the last update for a couple days bc we're at the wedding, and this fic is gonna pick up A Lot. hope y'all like it!!   
> tysm for reading <3 <3 <3
> 
> hmu on tumblr @thatsjustfangtastic if you wanna yell


	5. sansa barely survives a wedding reception

Sansa has spent the next week leading up to the wedding changing her mind about her decision every five minutes, it seems. On the one hand, she can’t stop thinking about how happy Margaery looked when she agreed to still go, and how much Talla and Arianne want her to come. The dress hanging in her closet is also a temptation: she’s been trying it on every once in a while, when she’s been inside her own head for too long, and feeling better and better in it each time. She keeps finding herself wanting to smooth her palms along the soft, floaty fabric whenever she’s in class or on public transit, as there’s something comforting about the movement. 

On the other hand, Sansa does not want to spend an entire evening with the highborn families of Westeros, all of whom apparently know about Baelish’s bizarre fixation on her. She’s already experienced a truly awful relationship very much in the spotlight in front of all of these people, and probably more; she’s not interested in replaying the events of last time. 

So she wakes up each morning, trying and failing to ignore the dress as she opens her closet to pick out her clothes for class. She gets coffee outside the labs where she has her philosophy class on Tuesdays, as per usual, and tries not to catch the eye of the girl working at the chips stand next to it, who recognized her and asked her about  _ him  _ the first time Sansa ever came around this part of campus. She moves through her routine as normal, and each night she goes back to her apartment to panic and fret and nearly call Margaery to call the whole thing off. 

Oh, right. Sansa also hasn’t spoken to Margaery since they met up at the Rose Garden last Friday. 

Sure, they’ve texted. Not like they used to, just quick exchanges - “good morning”, “goodnight”, “what time should i meet you?” - that Sansa comes away from more nervous than before. Where Margaery was once a balm for her anxiety, a calming presence no matter what they were talking about, now she feels like something Sansa can’t or shouldn’t have in her life. 

There’s been a tipping point in most of Sansa’s relationships over the past two years, where once people see her like she  _ really  _ is (that is to say, a panicked hot mess), they either hold onto her tighter or disappear from her life entirely. She can’t blame them for getting scared away, even though it hurts to watch them leave. 

She had almost seen it in Robb for about a week, before her horrifically public breakup with  _ him _ : Robb had walked in on Sansa in the bathroom, perched on the edge of the bathtub, hiccuping and sniffling her way through what she knew now was an anxiety attack.  _ He  _ was just downstairs, and Sansa had to make sure to be very quiet about this. Robb had awkwardly patted her on the shoulder, clearly uncertain if he should go downstairs and kill  _ him  _ or not. Sansa pleading with him not to had shaken Robb more than the crying probably had. It had only taken a week before Jeyne (or “Jeynie” to Sansa and Arya, who reserved that Jeyne Poole had had the name first) had quietly scolded some sense into her boyfriend. Robb was there to pick Sansa up after the Incident, and he had never stopped being her brother in the way she had feared he might. 

But one victory, one person who closed that distance again, was not a reassurance that more would. Sansa was watching Margaery keep her distance, certainly out of politeness, but almost didn’t want to wait around to watch her never come any closer. 

So Sansa has kept to herself for a week, overthinking everything like the responsible adult her therapist could be proud of. 

She rolls out of bed on the morning of the wedding to a series of texts from Talla from the night before, and she smiles down at the screen. If people like Talla and Arianne weren’t going to this thing, Sansa isn’t sure she’d have the guts to go through with this. 

  
  


**Talla <33: ** omg i saw marg’s dress this morning!!! you guys are gonna look so cute together!!!!

**Talla <33: ** in a totally platonic friends way!!!!!

**Talla <33: ** also ari can’t drive us, she has to meet us at the wedding bc she’s picking a family friend up from the airport!!!!! (also i think she has a date) 

  
  


Sansa is a bit taken aback. Arianne hasn’t mentioned anything about mysterious family friends or wedding dates for herself. 

**me:** a secret wedding date??? gods that’s so arianne

**me:** i bet it’ll be some super hot dornish model or something

**Talla <3 <3: ** oh!! like how she brought jayne??

  
  


Jayne Ladybright, a young actress from Dorne who Arianne failed to mention she went to primary school with, had turned up on Arianne’s arm to some fancy Christmas party back in their first year of university, despite Arianne lamenting dramatically for weeks beforehand about her complete lack of a suitor to accompany her. She didn’t always have some sensational surprise for every event, but Sansa and her friends had learned to sense when she might. 

  
  


**me:** gods i hope so, i love jayne. ari has good taste in dates

**Talla <3 <3: ** even for other people!!!!! ;))

  
  


Sansa takes this as her cue to take a nice, long shower, and try not to think about Margaery. 

* * *

  
  


Loras, thank the gods, is seemingly always willing to be a chauffeur for his sister. This means that, even though Arianne can’t drive her, Sansa doesn’t have to go to Leonette’s wedding alone. It does mean that she spends the entire trip there wedged in the backseat between Margaery and Elinor Tyrell, who Sansa hasn’t seen in years but still greets her with a kiss on the cheek. Maybe this level of affection is just how people are raised in the Reach? 

Margaery is on Sansa’s doorstep as she heads out, and she is struck speechless for a moment by Margaery’s smile. In her full wedding regalia, she is much more intimidating than Sansa remembers her being just a week ago. Sansa is suddenly very glad for the coat she snagged on her way out, knowing the unpredictability of a windy King’s Landing autumn. There’s comfort in tugging the material closer around herself, still finding herself feeling a little too exposed in Arianne’s dress. 

Loras has saved the passenger seat for none other than Renly Baratheon, who presses a kiss to Loras’ knuckles as they laugh and chat on the drive there. Margaery gripes for just a moment about Loras valuing his boyfriend over his own sister, but doesn’t look at all upset at the two men in the front of the car. Renly and Sansa carefully don’t make eye contact with one another, and only share a polite nod when she climbs into the backseat. If anyone senses the tension, they don’t say anything about it, which is a relief to Sansa. 

Unfortunately, Elinor Tyrell rarely leaves anyone much of a moment to think. 

“So, Sansa, I didn’t realize that you and Marg knew each other?” Elinor asks on Sansa’s right.  _ Here we go _ , Sansa thinks. She knew people would have questions for her beyond Petyr Baelish, but she hadn’t realized they would start before they’d even gotten to the venue. 

Sansa nods, giving Margaery a furtive glance to figure out how to respond. She’s watching Elinor with a flat, unamused stare that surprises Sansa a little. 

“Ellie, you are not going to interrogate her,” Margaery says, though there’s no bite to it. It’s the kind of tone Sansa might use with Arya, particularly when she and Jeyne are left alone together. 

“I’m not! I promise, I was just curious,” Elinor says, carefully twirling a lock of her hair around her finger as she studies Sansa’s expression; Sansa tries to school it into something neutral and not at all terrified by her intrigue. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re so comfortable being yourself! It’s kind of complicated in the North, isn’t it? Your old gods are  _ so _ disapproving, aren’t they?” 

“They - uh -” Sansa stammers, confused. What do the old gods have to do with her “being herself” . . .? 

“ _ Oh _ .” Sansa flushes right down to her toes when she realizes what Elinor means, and shakes her head. “No, they - it’s not against any of the old religion, actually. It’s mostly the new gods that have a problem with it.” She thinks, anyway. It occurs to her that she’s never really looked into how anybody feels about same-gender relationships in the Faith of the Seven. As far as Sansa was concerned, the old gods would be alright with whatever she did as long as it wasn’t sororicide, as her mum had explained to her and Arya way back in primary school. 

Elinor’s eyebrows raise, and she lets the curl drop from her finger. “Really? I could’ve sworn . . .”

“Ellie,” Margaery says warningly, but Elinor waves her off with a delicate hand. She has tiny lilies painted on her nails, Sansa notices, and thinks about mentioning them to derail this line of conversation.

“Don’t worry, I don’t disapprove,” Elinor says. Sansa tries really hard to be reassured. “It’s just that nobody around here worships the old gods, and I always heard the North was very . . .  _ traditional _ .” 

“Then thank the gods ‘traditional’ isn’t synonymous with ‘horrible’,” Margaery says. 

Elinor snorts. “Tell that to the Maester that ran my boarding school. You know, he once walked in on Megga and that girl with the curly hair, she was from the Riverlands - gods, what was her name? Shiera? They were playing some dumb kissing game, I don’t know, they were, like, thirteen - anyway, he walked in on them - well, more like  _ found  _ them, because I  _ swear  _ he was looking for Megga, he never liked her -” 

Sansa feels Margaery place a tentative hand on her forearm, hidden in the bundle of their coats. Sansa doesn’t move her arm away, and lets herself relax as Elinor talks about the shitty Maester from boarding school and how she feels about ‘tradition’. 

* * *

  
  


Talla comes running up to her the moment they all pile out of Loras’ car, and she’s not worn a coat, so her dress is streaming behind her like a fantastic pink comet’s tail. Sansa has about three seconds to take in the glitter on her cheeks before Talla’s wrapped around her in a tight, warm hug, that Sansa didn’t realize she needed. When Talla detaches herself, she turns to say hi to Margaery and Loras, and freezes for a second. 

“Hi, Elinor,” she says, her voice a little shrill. 

Elinor waves at her, a gesture so casually graceful that Sansa is certain it’s practiced. “Hi Talla.” She comes around the car to give Talla a long once-over, and her pink lips curve into a smile. “ _ Love  _ your dress.” 

Talla fluffs up the material a bit, though Sansa thinks it might be unconscious. Her cheeks are as pink as the tulle, but Talla’s penchant for blush might be behind that. “Thanks!” 

Sansa glances between the two of them, watches Elinor give Talla’s shoulder a brush with her velvety clutch as she walks to the doors of the Sept. 

Talla turns to Sansa and Margaery, and now Sansa’s sure she’s blushing. “Not a word,” she pleads to Sansa, who nods and mimes sealing her lips. 

As Talla, Loras and Renly follow Elinor’s lead, Margaery leans closer to Sansa to whisper, “What aren’t you meant to speak a word about?”

Sansa leans over, too, and ignores the pleasant tickle of Margaery’s curls against her shoulder. They’re walking just behind the group, and she doesn’t want to call too much attention to themselves. “Talla had a massive crush on Elinor back in primary school.”

“Elinor was unbearable in primary school.”

“Talla’s nothing if not forgiving,” Sansa murmurs, and feels Margaery’s laugh in the breath on her cheek. “Anyway, she’s over it - supposedly. But she’s got, like, residual anxiety around her. Also, and I don’t know if you know this, but Tyrells can be pretty intimidating.” 

Margaery laughs again, although it sounds more surprised. “Am I intimidating, Sansa?” 

Sansa turns to look at her then, her eyes glittering in the afternoon sunlight, her mouth painted a deep berry-pink and barely hiding a smirk. Her hand is still on Sansa’s forearm, and her fingers are warm through the fabric of Sansa’s coat. “Very,” Sansa whispers. 

“Good,” Margaery says with a wink. 

* * *

  
  


The ceremony is beautiful. Leonette and Garlan are resplendent, standing there at the front of the hall; Sansa can see Lee beaming from her spot several rows deep into the crowd. It certainly is a Tyrell wedding, though its frills feel less ostentatious than the last highborn family wedding Sansa was forced to attend. 

Sansa catches sight of Arya and Robb as she and Talla exit their row. Margaery is up with the wedding party still, and Sansa is trying to find a decent spot to wait for her when she sees her siblings. 

“Robb!” she exclaims, hugging him tightly. He pulls back to grin down at her. 

“Gods, that wasn’t too bad,” Arya says, giving Talla a quick hug. “It wasn’t as long as the last wedding we went to. Was that for one of the Baratheons? Or the Freys? Ugh, that thing dragged on for  _ hours  _ -”

“Arya, we are still in the sept,” Sansa hisses. 

Arya just rolls her eyes. “What’re they gonna do? Convert me?” 

“How’re you doing?” Robb asks, clearly trying to divert the oncoming argument. “I heard you’re here with somebody?” 

“Who’d you hear that from, Mr. Baelish?” Sansa asks, and regrets this immediately as she sees Robb’s gaze darken. 

“Not quite, but mum was sure to vent about how involved he is in the situation. She heard from Aunt Lysa, who heard from gods knows who. So, who is he?” Robb is peering around the emptying sept, as if Sansa’s date might be wearing a neon sign that declares them as such. “Or, where is he?” 

Arya snorts, and Robb glances at her with a raised eyebrow. “You keep saying ‘he’,” she explains. Sansa hasn’t seen her sister wear such a thoroughly shit-eating grin in ages. 

“Of course I -” Robb pauses, then looks back down at Sansa. “Sansa? Should I not be saying ‘he’?” 

“Um . . .” Sansa trails off, not sure how to explain this mildly convoluted plan to her big brother, when someone taps her gently on the shoulder. 

“We’re all heading over to the feast now,” Margaery says, giving her a soft smile. She glances up at Robb, and then over at Arya and Talla. “Hi Arya, and . . . Robb Stark?” 

“Margaery Tyrell?” Robb asks. He’s still holding Sansa by the arms, and she wishes he would let go so she could explain this situation to Margaery. 

“It’s been a while! You never come to these things anymore,” Margaery says, charming as ever. Gods, Sansa is so thankful for her ability to charm the pants off of anyone. 

“My parents couldn’t, so I . . . I brought the gift, and . . . huh.” Robb lets Sansa go, which she’s grateful for, and glances between the two of them. “Anything you need to tell me, Sansa?” 

“I’m not gay,” Sansa blurts out, and then winces.

“Careful, darling, you’ll blow our cover,” Margaery says, though she’s definitely teasing; Sansa can mostly tell now with her. 

“Your cover?” Robb echoes. “Sansa, what in the name -”

“I told Baelish I was seeing someone,” Sansa says, as quietly as she can; it’s mostly just the wedding party left, but she still doesn’t need them to have to overhear this. “And - I mean, you know I said I wasn’t dating anymore, so Arianne thought I could just . . . bring Margaery instead?” 

“So you’re . . . pretending?” Robb asks. 

“Arianne calls it a ‘reverse beard’,” Sansa says, as if that is at all a helpful explanation. 

“Where is Arianne?” Margaery asks, and Talla shrugs. 

“She said she and her date were at the back somewhere. They probably left for the feast already.” 

“Hmm.” Margaery turns back to Robb, who still looks a little confused. “You know, the feast will be starting soon. We should probably head over, too. It’d be a bit tacky to turn up after the bride and groom.” 

Robb nods, and Sansa slips an arm through his, Margaery on her other arm. “I promise, I wasn’t keeping this from you,” she whispers. 

Robb nods once, and Sansa studies his face. He doesn’t seem angry, but she’s sure he could be hiding it. He got really good at that when they were younger, always tucking his own problems away so he could deal with Stark family nonsense. It’s made him so oddly difficult to read, especially in situations like this. 

“As long as you feel safe,” he whispers back, still looking ahead as their little group exits the sept. 

Sansa leans her head against her brother’s shoulder. “I do. I swear.” 

Margaery parts with Sansa so she can drive to the venue with Arya and Robb. She gives Sansa’s hand a quick squeeze before she’s getting into Loras’ car, Elinor giving the three Starks a smile and a wave through the window as they leave the parking lot. Inside Robb’s car, Arya can’t stop laughing. 

“Gods, you should’ve seen your  _ face  _ when you put it together,” she cackles at Robb, who gives Arya the exact look Margaery levelled Elinor with in the car earlier. Sansa watches them from the passenger seat, enjoying the familiarity of their bickering. “I can’t believe you actually thought Sansa Stark was a secret lesbian.” 

“Arya, this isn’t some stupid joke,” Robb says, and looks at Sansa in the rearview mirror. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Sansa says, leaning on her elbows against his dashboard. “I’m alright. Jeynie couldn’t come?” 

“No, she was busy at home.” Robb eases to a stall at a red light, and turns a bit to look at Sansa properly. “Are you sure I shouldn’t be worried about any of this?” 

“Why?” Sansa isn’t sure how this is worrying now that Robb knows the truth. “It’s just to get Baelish off my back for a while. Margaery wanted a date to have fun with, it’s a win-win.” 

Robb turns back to the road when the light turns green, but the set of his jaw tells Sansa he’s still worried. “Yeah. Margaery Tyrell is a nice girl -”

“ _ A nice girl _ \- Robb, she’s nearly the same age as you,” Arya says. “Don’t do that stupid worldly thing again, it doesn’t make you sound like dad.” 

“ _ As  _ I was saying,” Robb says, glaring at Arya, who leans back in her seat with her hands raised placatingly, “Margaery Tyrell is nice, and I don’t  _ not  _ trust her. But I just want to make sure that you’re actually -”

“I promise I can make semi-decent decisions about my own love life,” Sansa cuts in. Gods, she knows Robb is only being protective, she understands that, but the mistrust in his voice is frustrating. “I won’t do anything stupid, I swear. This is actually a way for me to stay  _ away  _ from gross, shitty men.”

“Besides, they’re not even actually dating,” Arya pipes up. “It’s pretend.” 

“Exactly,” Sansa says. “We’re just pretending.” 

* * *

  
  


The venue for the feast is this fancy, old-fashioned hotel in the heart of King’s Landing, all burnished bronze chandeliers and broad, rich carpets underfoot. It’s lit by hundreds of tiny, candle-like lights in the electric candelabras, which gives the entire place a beautiful golden glow against the descending night outside. 

The three Starks step inside and find themselves amid a small throng of guests figuring out where their seated inside, milling about and chatting. Arya spots Talla and waves her over, and when Talla approaches so do Margaery, Loras, Elinor and Renly. 

“Sansa, darling, you can leave your coat on the racks in the closet room,” Elinor says, gesturing to a small room off to the side of the main foyer. She’s already removed hers, and the long gown of pale blue satin catches the lights around them like the surface of a rippling lake at sunset. Talla is still a little flushed, and Sansa gives her a sly smile. 

“Don’t,” Talla warns quietly. 

Sansa just giggles. “I didn’t say anything.” 

She and Arya go to take off their coats, Robb having forgone one. (“Oh, he thinks he’s so tough,” Arya jokes as they head for the closet room. “Look at me, the truth Northernman, no autumn chill can get me down!”) 

As Sansa slips off her coat, relinquishing the comfort of its weight on her shoulders, she turns to see Arya staring at her, a bit wide-eyed. 

“You okay?” Sansa asks. 

“Holy shit,” Arya says, looking her up and down not once, but twice. Sansa rolls her eyes, but still draws her arms around herself a bit tighter. “Not to be a bit of a Targaryen about this, but you look fucking  _ hot _ .” 

“Gods, can you not? Please?” Sansa pleads, and her sister just cackles. 

“Fine, fine, but I won’t be the only one saying anything.” 

“Shit,” Sansa whispers, tugging at the waist. It fits perfectly, she knows it does, but something about it feels too tight now, with hundreds of people waiting outside the room to see her. “Maybe I should just -”

“Nope,” Arya says, linking their arms. “You’re not putting the coat on. You’re gonna go have fun with Margaery, and we’re gonna track down Arianne and her mysterious date, and once you’re next to the pair of them no one will bother just staring at you.”

“I don’t know if that was an insult or not,” Sansa says as her sister guides her back out through the door and into the main foyer. 

“I don’t know either,” Arya says, grinning. “So let’s just say it wasn’t.” 

The walk back to their little party feels like an eternity, and Sansa can’t help glancing around to make sure no one is looking at her. Other than a glance or two from some people she recognizes as acquaintances of her parents, she remains unspotted. 

That is, until Talla and Elinor see her. 

“Oh my gods, Sansa, it looks even better now,” Talla says, taking her hands as she and Arya return to their huddle. “And with your hair -”

“It’s really lovely,” Elinor says from over Talla’s shoulder, and reaches out to touch the plain golden necklace at Sansa’s collar, the tiny pearl pendant shaped like a slightly imperfect teardrop. “Where did you get this?” 

“My mum gave it to me a few years ago,” Sansa explains, reaching up from Talla’s grip to touch it herself. The pearl is smooth and cool against her fingertip, as if it’s just emerged from the water it came from. “It’s from some jeweller in the Riverlands - it’s a freshwater pearl.” She doesn’t mention that it was meant to be a good luck charm after Sansa’s disastrous first relationship, or that she’s been waiting to wear it ever since. 

“Oh, hold on - Margaery, come here!” Elinor takes her cousin by the hand, who had been talking to Loras and Renly, and whirls her around. “Stand with Sansa for a second, I need to see the full effect.” 

Margaery looks over at Sansa and freezes, her eyes darting over every inch of her. For a moment, Sansa is frozen, too: does she hate it? Does it not match the way she wanted it to? She should’ve just stuck with the brown dress, it would’ve been nice -

“You look beautiful,” Margaery says quietly, coming to stand at her side. She puts an arm around Sansa’s waist, the weight of it as light as a breeze. 

Sansa lets out a breath, and carefully places her hand on Margaery’s shoulder. “You do, too.” 

And that’s true. Margaery is practically glowing in the faux-candlelight, her hair curled up in an elaborate braided updo that looks like something Leonette might have done herself for the women in her wedding party; Sansa can almost imagine it, all the girls braiding their hair into crowns together before the ceremony. Her flowing gown of creamy pink makes her skin look almost golden, and the long earrings she wears glitter and shimmer with her every movement, casting tiny rays of light along her shoulders and cheeks, pink and green and silvery blue. Seeing her here, Sansa can’t help but stare a little bit. 

“Oh, I was so right,” Talla squeals, grinning from ear to ear. “You guys look so cute together! Arianne made such a good call on that dress.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Sansa says with a laugh. “You were also trying to blackmail me into buying it.” 

“I’m glad they did,” Margaery murmurs next to Sansa’s ear as Talla and Elinor return to their examination of the other’s gowns, Talla showing off the fluffiness of her skirts again. “You shouldn’t try to sell yourself short either, Sansa. You look incredible.”

Sansa gives herself a quick once-over, and takes it in: the fitted bodice of the dress with its plunging open back leaving her shoulder blades feeling unusually exposed, so different from what she usually reverts to. She had to leave her hair loose down her back to feel comfortable going out in the dress at all. The shade of deep, forest green does look nice next to Margaery’s dress, though, she’ll admit that; the subtle golden brocade brings out the slight golden undertones of Margaery’s skirts. If anything, Sansa thinks Arianne and Talla’s choice is more of a testament to their ability to colour coordinate than anything about how it specifically looks on her. She is better as part of a set, and she can’t find it in her to be upset about that tonight. 

But she won’t say that aloud, because Margaery is being so nice to her, like she always is, and she thinks Sansa looks “beautiful” and “incredible”, so she will take the compliments with a quiet hum and a nod. 

They start filing into the main hall after a few minutes of chatting. Sansa and Renly finally exchange words, though it’s still a little reserved and awkward; Renly’s quiet “You look lovely,” and Sansa’s “You do as well,” could be taken straight from rigid etiquette guidebooks. But at least those formalities are over, and they can go back to politely pretending not to see the other. 

They find their seats easily, and Sansa and Margaery are at a table with Talla, Arya, Robb, Loras and Renly, and -

“Arianne?” Talla and Sansa both stop to see their friend already seated, with an empty chair next to her that has a suit jacket draped over its back. 

Arianne glances up at them, and she gets up immediately to come over to the other side of the table. “Oh gods, thank you,” she says, not at all trying to keep her voice down. “I’ve been terribly bored over here, and you’ve been sent like avenging angels to give me a good time.” 

“Is your date that bad?” Talla asks, eyeing the lone suit jacket. 

“He’s not my date,” Arianne says, and her tone is so clipped that neither Talla nor Sansa argue. “Anyway, you look so good - Sansa, what did I tell you? Is it not perfect for her?” Arianne turns to Margaery, and gestures to Sansa with a flourish. “Is she not a resplendent goddess in this thing?” 

“You’ve always had taste, Arianne,” Margaery says, sliding into her seat. “But this is a good call, even for you.” She looks up at Sansa, who is still hovering next to the table with Talla and Arianne holding onto her. “She looks stunning.” 

Wow. Add “stunning” to the list of words Sansa would never have expected Margaery Tyrell to call her just two months ago. 

“What’d you do that’s a good call?” says a voice from just behind the trio. “Because I can’t remember the last time I saw you make one.” 

Arianne rolls her eyes so hard it looks almost painful as she turns to look at the man standing behind her. He’s tall, taller than Sansa, even, with soft, curling dark hair and a wicked half-smirk playing on his mouth. He’s wearing slacks but no jacket over his pressed white dress shirt and black tie, and Sansa and Talla both look at Arianne with expressions of equal confusion.  _ This  _ is her secret non-date date?

“Daemon, everyone. Everyone, Daemon Sand.” 

Daemon Sand gives the rest of their table a single, casual wave. “Sorry, I had to use the washroom,” he says, and turns to Sansa first, which she curses. “You’re . . . Sansa Stark?”

She nods, eyebrows raised, and Daemon gives her an apologetic look when he shakes her hand. “Sorry, it’s the hair. Hard to miss.” 

Daemon makes his rounds greeting everyone, and he and Robb seem to recognize each other a little. As they start talking about some wilderness camp in Dorne that Sansa remembers Robb attending once (and hating), nearly everyone else turns their attention to Arianne, who looks up at them from her seat and just shrugs. 

“I’m not pleased about this, if you can’t tell,” she says quietly. “But I’ll tough it out, don’t worry.” 

“I don’t know how you’ll manage,” Daemon says, barely even turning away from Robb. “But I, too, believe that somehow Princess Arianne will make it through an evening sharing oxygen with me.” 

“I have been dealing with  _ that _ since this morning,” Arianne says, as if Daemon hadn’t spoken to her. “But anyway, let’s get started with this party.”

* * *

  
  
The feast is delightful, and stretches late into the night. Sansa, having avoided such large parties for the past year and a half, is astonished by how much more fun they are than she remembers. But maybe that’s because of who she’s with: even Arianne and Daemon’s light bickering can’t dim the mood, and sometimes winds up circling back around to being entertaining rather than a nuisance. Everyone revels in the wine and the food and the music, and all of Sansa’s friends are talking and laughing around her. Eventually, the dancing starts, and Talla and Arya start doing some ridiculous half-tango to make everybody laugh, and Elinor and Talla try to do a waltz and mess up so bad that Talla nearly falls into a huge bowl of a sparkling punch that Sansa never wants to stop drinking. Margaery has a hand in hers or an arm around her shoulders the entire time, and Sansa lets herself sink into the warmth of it, damn the consequences, damn the pretending. Sometimes she just wants to feel loved. 

“Quick!” Arya hisses, kicking Sansa’s shin. Sansa curses and rubs her ankle, glaring at her sister. “Incoming creep!” 

Sansa has just enough time to straighten up before Petyr Baelish appears next to their table. He’s dressed in a simple slate-gray suit that Sansa thinks makes him look uncomfortably polished, like someone intentionally dressing up as a slippery politician. He smiles down at Sansa, and she wants to stand up if only to prove that she’s nearly as tall as him, and so he doesn’t need to do anything  _ down  _ at her. So she does, rising up to meet Baelish with a practiced, polite smile. 

“Mr. Baelish,” she says. 

“Sansa, darling, call me Petyr, how many times must I tell you?” Baelish leans forward as if to brush her cheek with one of those lingering, odd kisses that he gives her mum, but Sansa puts her arm out between them to block his path, shaking his hand instead. She tries to remind herself that he’s a colleague of her mother’s, that Cat needs to be able to work with him on their upcoming annual project. 

Arianne, however, has no reservations. “Baelish,” she says, standing and sweeping over, the layers of her elaborate plum gown swishing gracefully along with her stride. “So lovely to see you.” She takes her stance standing just beside the two of them, and Sansa knows her move because she’s seen her do it before: if he goes in for another kiss, Arianne will step right between them, or maybe even try to break his foot with the heel of her shoe. Sansa’s pretty sure Arianne is wearing stilettos, and almost wishes she would give in and do the latter. 

“Miss Martell,” Baelish says with a sly smile. “Good to see you, too. I was just looking for a word with our friend Miss Stark - I was promised a chance to meet her date tonight. See if he’s quite worthy of dear Sansa.” 

Suddenly there’s fingertips brushing Sansa’s elbow, and Margaery is threading her arm through Sansa’s. “I assure you, Sansa’s date is certainly trying to be worthy of her. But looking like this, she does make it difficult, doesn’t she?” 

“So, where is he? I hope he hasn’t fled at the sight of me,” Baelish says with a light laugh. 

“No, she hasn’t,” Sansa says, and leans against Margaery’s shoulder a bit, seeking a bit of support. Margaery tightens her grip on Sansa’s arm, and she can’t help but smile. “Mr. Baelish, this is my . . .”

“Girlfriend,” Margaery says, holding out a beautifully-manicured hand, not missing a beat. “It’s been so long, Petyr. Grandmother misses you.” 

Sansa nearly laughs at the thought of Olenna Tyrell missing anyone like Baelish. 

Baelish looks between Margaery and Sansa, as though they might be playing a prank on him. “Miss Tyrell, you’re - the two of you came here together?” 

Margaery giggles, and it’s in this moment that Sansa gets to see the sharpness in her friend’s gaze turn to steel, her charm like a weapon as she aims it at Baelish. “Well, it would be strange not to bring my girlfriend to my own brother’s wedding. Can you imagine?” 

Baelish laughs, though it’s strained. “I hadn’t realized you two even knew each other.”

“Oh, it’s a big campus,” Margaery says airily. “But we ran into each other eventually - you know, mutual acquaintances. It was actually Arianne who introduced us a few months ago - I still haven’t stopped thanking her,” she smiles at Arianne, who smirks back and lowers herself into the chair behind her, leaving the situation in Margaery’s capable hands for the time being. “I mean, Miss- well,  _ Sansa _ , is just the loveliest, isn’t she?” 

Sansa blushes, even though she knows Margaery is playing this up for Baelish’s sake. “Stop it,” she says to Margaery with a shy smile of her own. “We all know who the loveliest woman here is.” 

Margaery laughs again, and leans over to press a gentle kiss to Sansa’s cheek. “Anyway, Petyr, it’s so good to run into you - I believe grandmother is somewhere near Leonette and Garlan’s table, if you’d like to speak with her.” 

And just like that, Margaery tugs Sansa back into their seats, Baelish hovering for a moment with his gaze trained furiously on Sansa. Then he bites out a hasty, “Have a nice evening, ladies,” before turning on his heel and marching off into the crowd. 

“He might be back,” Sansa says quietly. The spot on her cheek that Margaery kissed is burning slightly, and she resists the urge to touch it. “You know how he is.”

“And we will still be here, adorable and in love as ever,” Margaery replies, winking at her. 

Arianne leans over, her chin resting on her fist as she regards Margaery with raised eyebrows. “Gods, that was satisfying. Could I get you to come to Dorne sometime and mess with my father like that?” 

“I’m sure you’re far better at that than I am,” Margaery says, and her little snort brings Sansa a little bit out of her enchanted daze. This is the Margaery from late-night phone calls, not some mystical goddess. “I’ve seen you hand the little lion his ass enough times to be sure of it.” 

Arianne laughs, too, but glances at Sansa for a split second. Sansa shakes her head, not wanting her to worry. She knows how protective her friends are of her when it comes to  _ him _ , but she goes to school in King’s Landing. She’s going to talk to people who know  _ him _ , and she has managed to make her peace with that. 

Sansa could walk on air just thinking about Baelish’s expression as he fled from her and Margaery, held at bay for the time being. She still believes he’ll find another way to approach her, if he really wants her as much as everyone seems to think he does. But for now, sitting between Arianne and Margaery with another glass of champagne in hand, Sansa is blissfully free of the men of King’s Landing trying to ruin her night. 

* * *

  
  


“I love this song,” Margaery giggles in Sansa’s ear. 

They’re swaying gently to the music, leaning on each other for support. It’s been a few hours and quite a lot of wine since they arrived, and the two women are more than a little tired and definitely tipsy. 

“Me, too,” Sansa whispers back, giggling, too. “I keep telling Robb to play it at his wedding when he and Jeynie get married.” 

“And did he say he would?”

“No, he just gets embarrassed and goes out on a run with Grey Wind,” Sansa says, and Margaery practically cackles. 

“Gods, I could give them a nudge in the right direction if you want. It’s what I did for Loras and Renly,” Margaery says, leaning forward to press her forehead against Sansa’s shoulder. She’s just an inch or two shorter than Sansa, and Sansa loves noticing it. 

“Yeah? Arianne said you bearded for Renly in high school,” Sansa says. 

“I did!” Margaery laughs, pulling back a bit. “I did, and I was fucking great at it, if I do say so myself.” 

“And then you set him up with your brother?”

“Yes, because they were mooning over each other for  _ ages _ , Sansa, it was  _ awful _ .” 

“I’ll bet,” Sansa says, brushing some stray locks of hair out of Margaery’s eyes. “Hey, I have to go to the washroom -”

“Say no more,” Margaery wraps an arm around Sansa’s waist, already leading her to the washrooms on the far side of the ballroom. “I shall escort you, my dear.” 

The combination of wine and laughter is making Sansa’s chest feel fuzzy and light as they make their way across the room, and she is so caught up in Margaery’s impression of what must be Baelish, that she doesn’t realize she’s bumped into someone until she stumbles a bit. 

Sansa rights herself, turning a bit to face whoever her arm brushed. “Oh gods, I’m sorry, are you . . .?” 

The words die on her lips as she meets Joffrey Baratheon’s gaze. 

“I’m sure you are, Sansa,” he says, and gods, she forgot how cruel his mouth is when he speaks, all his words pointed like knives. “You are so good at being sorry.” 

“Hey,” Margaery says, turning along with Sansa to look at who she’s quite literally bumped into. She stops when she sees Joffrey, and straightens up. Her hand on Sansa’s waist tightens a bit, and she tugs Sansa an inch or two closer to her. “Joffrey.” 

“I hardly recognized you, Margaery.” Joffrey’s eyes narrow as he speaks to her, and suddenly Sansa is looking from one of them to the other, confusion battling with the fear rising like bile in her throat. “But I have to say, the desperate drunk look certainly suits you.” 

“Well, you would know what desperate drunks look like, wouldn’t you? Say, where is your mother?” Margaery’s voice is coolly irritated, though Sansa can almost feel the slamming of her heart in her chest with how close they are.

“You say one  _ word  _ about my mother, and I -” Joffrey snarls. 

“You’ll do what? Yell at me at Lee and Garlan’s wedding, throw another temper tantrum?” 

“I swear to the gods -”

“Don’t swear to anything that wouldn’t respect you, Joffrey.” 

Joffrey turns his eyes back on Sansa, as if remembering that there is someone very scared in his vicinity that he hasn’t barked at yet. “Awfully quiet, dove. Are you still in  _ recovery _ ? Getting used to loneliness up in your Northern hovel?” 

Sansa is not used to her loneliness. Sansa is not defined by her relationship status, or her ability to beg others for affection. Sansa is not defined by her family home, which is not a hovel, but wouldn’t matter less to her if it was. Sansa is not defined by what Joffrey Baratheon or any of his ilk think of her. 

These are the things Sansa tells herself while she stares at Joffrey, frozen in place. But a year and a half has gone by, and she is still going to stand here and wait for the blows to stop because apparently she is  _ the Stark girl _ , and she is to be pitied above all else. 

“Are you two starting a club for rejected sluts?” Joffrey keeps going, as he always does, and Sansa thinks  _ I never cheated on you, I promise I promise I promise _ , and gods she really is the same girl that just wanted a boy to gift her love as if it was something she had to prove herself worthy of. 

“If that’s what you call a relationship, then yes,” Margaery says, and Sansa’s heart stops. “Because you happen to be insulting my girlfriend.” 

Joffrey’s eyebrows shoot up, and then he barks out a laugh. Sansa hates this, she hates this, she just wants to run -

“What, are you two  _ in love _ ? Sansa here can’t stay in a relationship to save her life,” Joffrey sneers, jerking his chin at Sansa in a gesture so familiar that it steals her breath for a moment. “So, good luck with that.” 

“Thank you, Joffrey, the well wishes are really sweet,” Margaery says. “I guess we’ll see you at the Christmas party.” 

“If you can hold onto her for that long,” Joffrey snickers. “But I fucking doubt that.” He takes a step closer, and Sansa backs up right into Margaery. Joffrey’s smirk grows as he meets her eyes. “She knows exactly what she’s worth, and she’ll prove it to you soon enough.” 

“Hey, Baratheon,” Arya spits, stepping between Sansa and Joffrey, and for a moment Sansa is tossed back in time and it’s a year and a half ago, and Arya is about to punch Joffrey Baratheon in the nose. “You want another go?” 

Joffrey recoils from Arya, who looks menacing even in her little striped party dress, her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. 

“I don’t fight little girls, Stark,” he spits back, but retreats back to where they can all see his mother and uncle lounging at a table. 

“Yeah, ‘cause he knows he’d get his ass kicked,” Arya mutters, back stiff as she watches him go. 

“Gods, he is such a little prick.” Margaery shifts slightly, turning so that she’s facing Sansa completely. Sansa, who is still filled with the overwhelming need to  _ escape escape escape _ , who can’t seem to find her voice or her legs to run. 

“Sansa?” Margaery asks, slowly tugging at her shoulder. Sansa turns accordingly, following Margaery’s lead. “Sansa, are you alright?” 

“Washroom-” Sansa chokes out, and Margaery and Arya nod and hurry along with her, one of her hands in each of theirs. They burst into the washrooms, and Sansa is relieved no one is inside. She reaches a stall and sits on the toilet lid, pressing her palms against either wall to remind herself that she’s in here, she’s hidden, she’s safe. The small space is reassuring. 

“Arya, what’s going on?” 

She can hear Margaery and Arya talking just in front of her, outside the open stall door, but she’s focusing on her breathing. The conversation is playing on a loop in her head, and it isn’t until she probably catches her breath and can shake out the nerves in her limbs that she looks up at the two of them to find them staring back down at her. 

“What Christmas party?” 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the wedding has happened!!! but wait - there's more? a christmas party? thrown by the lannister-baratheons? will our reverse-bearding fools make it through another round of Keep Every Awful Man Away From Sansa Stark?!
> 
> anyway, tysm to everybody for reading!!! and arianne's minor subplot has been revealed - as has the ship for the one shot i'm working on. these are now both characters that i have only encountered through fanon and wiki pages, so i am really going into it blind lmao, so i am very sorry if any asoiaf readers here are displeased by my choice. literally every other character arianne is shipped with is like her cousin or something. so there we go. 
> 
> hmu on tumblr @thatsjustfangtastic if you wanna yell or anything <3 <3


	6. sansa comes to a realization

The drive to Sansa’s apartment from the wedding was a long, tense one. Robb had offered to give Sansa, Arya and Margaery a ride there, since both Sansa and Margaery insisted Loras be allowed to stay with Renly. Robb drove in silence, not looking at anyone, though he did keep his body angled towards Sansa in the passenger seat, who wished he wouldn’t. She kept her face cupped in her palm, staring out the window the entire time. Margaery and Arya sat in the backseat and didn’t speak a word. 

Talla and Arianne had caught the pair of them at the doors, after Sansa and Robb had already stepped back out into the chilled night. Sansa could just make out Margaery saying “can’t believe he was even  _ here _ ” before the doors to the venue swung shut, cutting them off. She had let Robb lead her to the car after that. 

Now, Sansa is curled up on her couch, her hair damp from the shower that Margaery and Arya suggested she take. They had made tea while she was in there, scrubbing listlessly at the product in her hair; Sansa has a mug full of it clutched in both hands, resting in her lap. The mug is a brown one decorated in vivid blue irises, and she wonders how Margaery knew she liked it. Maybe it’s one of her many secret superpowers. 

Margaery herself and Arya are both in Sansa’s living room, too: Arya flopped across an old armchair in the corner, and Margaery pacing lightly across from the couch. Sansa’s trying to find a way to ask her to stop, but it seems like Margaery needs to do  _ something _ : after she made the tea, she wiped down all of Sansa’s counters with a damp cloth, and rearranged the mugs on Sansa’s shelf to be evenly spaced again. She’s picking at her fingernails now as she paces, and Sansa wants to ask her to be careful because she’ll ruin her very pretty manicure, but decides against it. Margaery can ruin her manicure all she wants. 

“Why did Lee even fuckin’ invite him?” Arya asks. “He’s such a little  _ prick _ .” 

“Yes,” Margaery says lightly. “And also the heir to the Baratheon-Lannister fortune. He gets in anywhere his parents do.”

“Well - well that’s fucking stupid!” 

“Arya, don’t,” Sansa says quietly. She takes a slow sip of her tea, which turns out to be milky hibiscus. It’s nice.

“No, he doesn’t - he isn’t allowed to just prance around saying shit like that,” Arya spits. It’s like she’s back there already, and Sansa can tell that she wishes she’d punched him again. 

“Isn’t he though?” Margaery asks, and Sansa’s gaze drifts to her; she sounds so tired. Margaery meets her eyes and purses her lips, thinking something over. “Sansa, darling, I’m really -” 

“It’s fine,” Sansa says, without really realizing what she’s saying until the words leave her. Of course it’s “fine”, she’s Sansa fucking Stark, everything always has to be  _ “fine”  _ -

“You shouldn’t have had to see him,” Margaery says. “After everything he put you through . . .”

“I mean - he was a jerk, it’s fine,” Sansa says slowly. “He’s an asshole to everyone.”

“But after you two . . . I mean - I mean, I’ve heard about . . . you two.” 

There’s a long pause while Sansa digests this, and then she looks up at Margaery while her stomach sinks straight to the floor. “Pardon?” 

“After . . . I mean, tabloids covered it a fair bit,” Margaery says, grimacing. “It was pretty public, so people kind of know that you two were together . . . and that you, you know,  _ weren’t  _ anymore.” 

“How much -” Sansa stops herself, not certain what she really wants to know. “How much coverage did it get?” 

“You don’t know?” Margaery asks. 

Sansa’s gaze, and then Margaery’s, swing to Arya, who looks back at her sister with a pinched expression and a sigh. “We didn’t want you to have to deal with it, so we kind of - I mean, we minimized it, I guess. How much of it all you saw.”

“ _ We _ ?” Sansa echoes. 

Arya nods. “Me, Jeyne, Talla . . . Ynys helped . . . Bran . . . a lot of people. Arianne, a bit, too. Wylla. You know.”

“Everybody,” Sansa says hollowly. 

“Yeah. Everybody.” 

Sansa takes a long gulp of tea, still looking at Arya and Margaery but not quite seeing either of them; she’s retreating into her head, being taken back to that day a year and a half ago. 

“Sansa!” Sansa blinks, and Arya has secured her sister’s attention once again. “Dude, you okay?” 

“I -” Sansa shudders, trying not to panic, trying not to think too much about Joffrey and Cersei and Margaery reading those tabloids and everyone reading those tabloids  _ but her  _ and the entirety of fucking Westeros knowing exacty how  _ weak  _ she is and how  _ pathetic  _ and how badly she deserved to let herself get hurt like that, hurt the way she was when Joffrey had her in his room or on a balcony or in the garden or in the car or in her dreams, his hands always reaching for her throat -

Margaery and Arya both hold her as she cries.

* * *

  
  


It takes another hour for Arya to agree to head home, and Sansa tries not to notice the final frown her sister gives her before she closes the door. She slumps against it for a moment, exhaustion from the night sweeping over her as she stands in the quiet of her apartment. 

“Sansa?”

Margaery’s voice calls her back to reality again, and Sansa’s head jerks up as she watches Margaery approach her. She’s taken her hair out of her careful updo, and her lush chestnut curls are waving around her shoulders, a bit wild from the braids they’ve been in all day. 

“Are you alright?” Her voice is soft, and Sansa leans into it like a caress. “Do you want me to go, too?”

“No,” Sansa says before she can think any better of it. 

“No?” Margaery echoes. Her head tilts to the side a bit as she regards Sansa, who stays pressed against her door. 

“No, I - you could stay. It would be nice.” Sansa swallows, grasping for something to throw up like a shield. “You could tell me about how well  _ you  _ know Joffrey.” She laughs, though the sound is a bit strangled in her throat; his name tastes bitter on her tongue. 

Margaery laughs, too, and hers is just as odd and wooden as Sansa’s, which certainly makes Sansa feel better. “Are you sure you’d like to know? I’m afraid it might not be as fun as you think.”

“I’m sure anything about Joffrey could be fun with a bottle of wine and a bit of distance,” Sansa replies. 

Margaery snorts. “Where’s this wine?”

“In the fridge,” Sansa says, and moves back into her apartment. Her arm brushes Margaery’s as she passes her, and the touch leaves pins and needles skittering underneath her skin. “You can borrow some pyjamas if you want to.” 

“Thanks.” Sansa glances back at Margaery, and is relieved to see her smile. “Do you mind if I just . . .?”

“Yeah, go for it,” Sansa says, as Margaery slips down the short hallway and into Sansa’s bedroom. “I’m just gonna clean up a bit.”

Sansa spends a long time taking off her makeup, going through her skincare routine, and brushing out her hair. She watches her eyes in her bathroom mirror and only opens the door when she doesn’t feel alienated by her own expression. She carefully lays her dress out on her bedspread, Margaery having left her bedroom long ago, and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t shirt. She can’t be bothered to even consider what it will be like wearing sweatpants in front of Margaery Tyrell, she’s too tired and too ready for a glass of wine. 

“Hey,” Margaery says, and Sansa stops dead in her tracks in the door of the little kitchenette. “I found the wine.”

Margaery is already in a pair of Sansa’s pyjamas, a matching set with pink cats printed on them. Her face is bare and there’s a calm glow to her, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. 

“Thank gods,” Sansa says, trying not to feel too self-conscious in her pyjamas and messy hair. She accepts the glass Margaery hands her and they settle down right there on the floor, Sansa’s back pressed against her dishwasher. 

“So.” 

“So.” 

They both drink at the same time, and Margaery chokes a little on a laugh as they do. Sansa smiles at her, though she knows it looks tired. She is tired. Maybe it’s alright for her to look like it. 

“You and Joffrey?” Sansa asks. His name is still poisonous in her mouth, but she chases it with a gulp of rose. 

“Yeah,” Margaery says, though it comes out like a sigh. “For a little while. Maybe four, five months tops? He’s a godsdamn nightmare.” 

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” 

Margaery laughs again, and this time Sansa joins her, for just a brief moment. “It was a weird family sort of thing. His family was in negotiations with mine over some stupid business deal - he seemed charming. Asked me out the second time we ever spoke. Why I didn’t think twice about that . . . I’m not sure.” 

“Was he . . . I mean, what was he like?” Sansa can’t help herself with this question. She knows the answer she absolutely doesn’t want to hear: that he was awful, mean, horrible. That he had hurt Margaery as often and as intimately as he had hurt Sansa. 

But the alternative didn’t feel wonderful either. 

“He was a twat.” Margaery shrugs, swirling her wine in her glass. She’s not looking at Sansa now, and she can’t tell if it’s because of what Joffrey did to her or to Margaery. “He yelled all the time, he got angry at the drop of a hat. He was always furious with me because I never just did as he asked, I never tried to placate him the way his mother does.” 

Sansa stares at the floor and feels a flush rising to her face. She did. She tried so hard for Joffrey, for so long; it started to feel like a duty, like something she had to do. The only time Cersei ever looked at her like she mattered was when she was trying to please Joffrey, let Joffrey do as he wished with her and everyone around her. 

She was weaker than Margaery, but then, Sansa already had an inkling of that knowledge.

“Did he ever - did he ever mention me?” Sansa asks. 

Margaery looks at her then, Sansa can see it in her peripheral vision. She doesn’t raise her gaze, just takes another quiet sip of her wine. 

“Yes, sometimes. He was . . . Sansa, he’s a cruel person. I never believed anything he said about you.” 

“I didn’t realize you knew me before . . . this,” Sansa says, gesturing to the space between them. Margaery shakes her head. 

“Only from the tabloids. He never said your name - said it was too - that you were too . . . that you weren’t worth mentioning by name.” Margaery inches across the small kitchen floor to sit closer to Sansa, and places a tentative, graceful hand on Sansa’s knee. “I never believed it. Any of it.” 

“You didn’t?” Sansa feels the first tears well up and tries to swallow them down, but it’s too late; they run, one by one, down her cheeks. 

“Never.” Margaery carefully places her glass on the floor and holds out her arms. “Not for a second.” 

Sansa doesn’t know if this is true. She doesn’t know if Margaery would lie about it, or if she would ever believe someone like Joffrey, or if it even matters, really. But she wants to live in a world where Margaery Tyrell has never had a nasty thought about her, so she chooses to believe her and lean forward into her embrace. Margaery gives the nicest hugs, and Sansa could really use one right now. 

It's tight and solid, a good anchor for Sansa to cling to as her mind whirls. Margaery still smells like her perfume, and as she murmurs reassurances into Sansa's hair, she can't help but let herself think that this is something far more permanent than it is. 

* * *

It’s nearing six am when Sansa wakes on the couch, and when she glances around she can just make out Margaery’s silhouette, curled up and fast asleep on her armchair. It can’t be comfortable. Margaery’s hand is outstretched, barely meeting the arm of the couch next to it, where Sansa’s must’ve been before she fell asleep.

She looks at her for a good, long while, until the sun starts to rise. Just watches Margaery sleep, her chest rising and falling in a calm, steadying rhythm. 

Sansa has the sudden, very strong urge to reach over and brush her hair from her face, or coax her into a proper bed to get some rest. She presses her face into the arm of the couch and wants to scream. 

She wants Margaery to hold her in her sleep. 

* * *

“Oh, babe.” 

Arianne wraps Sansa in a good, tight hug when she steps into her apartment, and Sansa quiets down her protests and lets her. She’s been getting a lot of hugs recently, and, though she is still adamant that she doesn’t need or want anyone’s pity, it’s still a comfort to know that Arianne Martell has her back. 

“I didn’t know he would be there, or I would’ve had Tyene murder him,” Arianne says, a small frown quirking her mouth as she steps back to look at Sansa. 

“Or Daemon?” Sansa asks, just to be petulant and to try and move onto other topics.

“Don’t,” Arianne warns with narrowed eyes before tugging Sansa along to sit on her own couch. “And don’t change the subject, either - I’m not stupid, Sansa, I can see when you’re doing it.” 

Sansa scowls and collapses back against the couch cushions, watching Arianne pull off her jacket and drape it next to her on the arm of the couch. She’s not sure if calling her over was the perfect plan, but it was her only one. 

“I have a problem,” Sansa says, and Arianne raises an eyebrow. 

“Does it start with a J and end in Offrey?” 

“Yes, actually. It also kind of starts with an M and ends in Argaery.” 

“Oh?” Arianne’s frown grows, and she curls her legs underneath her, getting ready for whatever story Sansa is about to launch into. “Do tell.” 

“Well . . . I mean, you saw what happened at the wedding.”

“I did.”

“And you know that Margaery used to date  _ him  _ . . .”

“Yes, she did.”

“So . . . I mean, we told him that we’re, you know . . . dating. And we kind of agreed to go to a Christmas party that he’ll be at . . . together. As a couple. Who are together, in a relationship. Me and Margaery.”

Arianne is silent for a long moment as she regards Sansa, who waits with her hands clamped together anxiously in her lap, chewing on her lip. 

“You’re going to keep up the pretend relationship,” Arianne says slowly. Sansa nods sharply enough to hurt her neck a little. “I don’t know, Sans, it seems like you’ll be fine. It worked the other day, didn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, it did . . . it’s been working. But I - I mean, I have . . .” Sansa sighs through her nose, starting to get irritated with herself.  _ Just spit it out, holy shit.  _

“I think I have feelings for Margaery.” 

Arianne’s eyebrows shoot up at this, and Sansa cringes a bit. It feels so much worse out in the open, as if anyone on the street down below could’ve heard her. Like the whole world could know now, all because she said it out loud. 

“I thought you weren’t -”

“I didn’t think I was,” Sansa replies quickly. “But I just - she’s so - I mean, gods, Arianne, have you  _ met  _ her?” She’s beginning to sound - and feel - a little hysterical. 

“I have. Trust Margaery Tyrell to make you question your sexuality.” 

“Gods, I’m so screwed, I can’t fucking  _ believe  _ I’m this  _ stupid  _ -”

“Sansa, Sansa, babe, calm down!” Arianne grips Sansa’s shoulders, coaxing her to meet her eyes. “You’re fine, it’s fine, don’t worry!”

“Why wouldn’t I  _ worry _ ?! I’m - I really like her, she’s just - and so -” 

“I know.” Arianne tucks some of Sansa’s hair behind her ear, smiling a little bemusedly. “I know, it’s fucking Margaery. But Sansa, you’ll be fine. Everything is going to be fine.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you have me. And we are going to make sure you come out of this perfectly fine, alright?” 

“Yeah?” Sansa asks, still uncertain. 

Arianne nods, her eyes gleaming, and Sansa isn’t sure if she should be more or less nervous about this. “We are going to make sure that love doesn’t bite you in the ass again, Sansa Stark. I swear to the gods.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so she returns !!! the next update should be pretty soon, and there's probably only gonna be 2-3 more chapters before we wrap this babey up!!! (classes start again soon and i'm gonna die lmao so i'm working on finishing big fics by then)
> 
> tysm to everyone for reading, you're all so sweet and wonderful and i'm glad you're enjoying it. and now sansa knows what's up!!! (well, a bit) we're about to dip into the angsty side of fake relationship stuff, so get ready for that. 
> 
> also i've started a blog for writing!!! it's a tumblr @mallowswriting and it's where i'll be posting small drabbles and also the beginnings of my venture into reader-insert fic (which i wrote for the first time yesterday, wow i can't believe i've never done this). it's a nice low-stakes way for me to write in between fic updates, so if you would like to check that out there you go, and also i will be taking prompt requests if you want to send in any <3 <3 
> 
> hmu on tumblr @starmunches (she changed the url whoaaa) if you'd like to yell about anything <3 <3


	7. sansa does a face mask

The Rose Garden is alive with activity when Sansa arrives on a late Saturday morning, and she takes a seat at her and Margaery’s usual table by the window, ordering ahead for the both of them. At this point she knows Margaery’s order off by heart, and the thought of that makes her a bit dizzy. They had become so close so quickly, it’s as if Sansa has known her for years. 

She sits there with her earl grey, idly watching the sunlight stream through the window and catch on the bright, colourful blossoms of the flowers, safe from the coming chill inside this greenhouse, waiting for Margaery to arrive. 

When she does arrive, Sansa is struck once again by how  _ pretty  _ Margaery is. She’s thought it this whole time, of course, no one could argue that Margaery Tyrell wasn’t absolutely gorgeous. But suddenly every thought she’s had over the past two months feels like it’s been slammed into its actual context: Sansa looks at Margaery’s soft skin, the hair she’d like to twine her fingers in, the graceful throat she’d like to - 

She takes a long drink of her tea to try and drag herself back to her senses. Now isn’t the time to get too wrapped up in the things she wants to do with Margaery. 

Margaery herself smiles brightly at Sansa and slides into her seat, and she smiles even brighter at the strawberry tart in front of her. “You remembered.”

Sansa wants to say that of course she remembered, how could she forget something about Margaery? But she just nods, smiling softly as Margaery waves someone over to order some tea. 

“I didn’t want to order that ahead of time, in case it got cold,” Sansa says, and Margaery nods as she takes a bite of her tart. 

“Thank you,” she replies, and Sansa could listen to her voice for the rest of time. “Are you feeling alright?” 

“Oh - um, yeah, I’m okay.” Sansa fumbles with her fork a bit, nodding for far too long. So much for making it clear to Margaery that she isn’t out of her mind. “Had the weekend to just . . . figure things out. Be by myself for a bit.”  _ Even though I wanted you there _ . And she had. Though Arianne is lovely and Sansa could never not want to see her, there had been a particular presence lacking the whole three days she spent holed up in her apartment doing readings for class and trying not to spiral too much. It had been Margaery, she knows for sure now. Seeing her here, even in the middle of such a crowded room, feels like a moment to breathe. 

“That’s good.” Margaery smiles, and it’s a gentle balm to Sansa’s nerves. “So, about the Christmas party . . . I was thinking we could try and match again, really give  _ him  _ a show . . .”

Sansa lets her chin rest in the palm of her hand, listening to Margaery with a faint smile as she outlines the best ways to torment Joffrey at his own party. She wonders if this is what love feels like. 

* * *

Jeyne turning up in King’s Landing for Sansa’s birthday is the best thing to soothe Sansa’s current state of near-constant nervousness. She’s been chewing her fingernails nearly down to the quick, something she hates but doesn’t notice until the damage has been done. 

Jeyne is fussing over her fingernails right now, in the living room of Sansa’s apartment. It’s so beautifully familiar: Jeyne, her legs curled up underneath her on the couch, one of Sansa’s hands held gently between both of hers as she inspects her nails. Jeyne is frowning, but her frown is the kind that is almost doll-cute, just a pinch between her eyebrows and a worried pout. Sansa knows she at least doesn’t frown this adorably, and her mind wanders yet again to Margaery, how she saw Sansa’s big, ugly, ridiculous frowning the night of Lee’s wedding. 

“Sansa? Are you listening?” 

“What?” Sansa snaps back to attention when Jeyne says her name, and meets Jeyne’s questioning stare with a sheepish shrug. “Sorry, I’m a bit distracted.” 

“I can see that.” Jeyne’s frown is slowly replaced by a pleased smile as she studies Sansa. “How is Margaery, by the way?”

“. . . Did Arianne tell you?” Sansa can feel the blush rising in her cheeks, but doesn’t have it in herself to be genuinely embarrassed by the question. Having said it out loud to Arianne has made wrapping her head around the idea much easier: she has feelings for Margaery Tyrell. Also, this is Jeyne. If anyone is allowed to know Sansa’s biggest, scariest secrets, it’s Jeyne. 

“She tried not to, I think,” Jeyne says. “But the way she talked about the two of you . . . it wasn’t hard to piece together. I saw a photo of you two from the wedding, and it was kind of obvious, Sans.”

“Oh gods,” Sansa groans, dropping her face into her palms. “Obvious to everybody?” 

“Oh - no! No, I’m sure she has no idea, babe.” Jeyne tries to backtrack, carefully tugging Sansa’s hands away from her face to hold them in hers. “I promise, you’re, like, the most subtle person I know.” 

“You’re not funny,” Sansa says with a sigh, and Jeyne shakes her head. 

“I’m not kidding! I’m sure Margaery has absolutely no idea how you feel!”

Sansa collapses back against the couch, and Jeyne follows suit next to her. “I can’t tell if that’s what I should want,” Sansa says softly, fiddling with a lock of her hair. “Having her completely oblivious to it, I mean.”

“Well,” Jeyne replies, curling into Sansa’s side and reaching for the tv remote, “maybe you should figure out what you want, babe. What’s good for both of you, you know?”

“Yeah.” Sansa watches idly as a baking show comes on; a contestant is making a strawberry tart. She sighs again. “Probably.”

* * *

The drink in Sansa’s hand is only lightly alcoholic and tastes strongly of mango; it goes down her throat smooth, so unlike the flaming shots she watched Arianne down with Talla only minutes ago. Sansa politely declined when Talla invited her to join in on that particular fun, letting Arianne buy her a mellow birthday drink instead. 

Talla is chattering away next to Sansa at the corner booth of the nightclub, which has been retrofitted to resemble an old-fashioned speakeasy. Arianne Martell can always be trusted to find both the coolest and most fitting night-out spots, and she has knocked it out of the park for Sansa’s birthday: somewhere fun and exciting, but without the glaring discomfort a typical nightclub usually brings for Sansa. She had those ruined for her a while ago. 

“Sansa!” Sansa perks up despite herself as she catches on a familiar voice in the mingling crowd of dancers. She watches as Margaery breaks through the mass, making her way to their booth on pearly stilettos, her curves wrapped up in tight, baby-pink velvet. Loras trails after her, and shoots Sansa a crooked grin. She smiles back, his expression disconcerting; it was like he was sharing a secret with her. 

Margaery wraps Sansa in a tight hug, and Sansa tries not to feel weird about how intoxicating Margaery’s vanilla perfume is. Margaery presses a quick kiss to Sansa’s cheek, and she can feel the mark of her lipgloss there. She hopes the dim lights disguise her blush. 

“I’m glad you guys could make it,” Sansa says, and Margaery beams.  _ Gods _ , nothing about her is fair. Everything about Margaery Tyrell seems designed to knock Sansa off-balance tonight. 

She hasn’t seen her since the Rose Garden meeting a week ago, and Margaery somehow looks more radiant than Sansa remembers. Jeyne shoots her a conspiratorial wink over Margaery’s shoulder, and Sansa has to hold back from sticking her tongue out at her best friend. Margaery slides into the booth next to Sansa, Talla budging up to make room as she giggles away with Arianne about something. Sansa can feel Arianne’s gaze on her and Margaery for a moment before she turns her full attention back to Talla’s conversation. 

“Just find something strong,” Margaery says to Loras before he disappears into the crowd to get more drinks for their table, and then she turns back to face Sansa. “You look amazing, by the way.”

Sansa runs a self-conscious palm across the soft nylon of her skirt. She has been dressed up like a doll by Arianne again, and is decked out in a palette of soft blues and jet blacks that she quite likes. This time around, Arianne has dressed Sansa in a way that still feels like her, which is nice. It somehow makes it easier to face Margaery; there isn’t the added obstacle of a persona Sansa feels she has to adopt for some of the more ostentatious outfits Arianne likes to put her in. She doesn’t have to act like Arianne, or Talla, or Arya - she can just hold herself like Sansa. 

“Thanks,” she says, hoping Margaery can hear her over the rising din of the music and the mingling crowd. Margaery beams, and Sansa flushes in spite of her resolve not to. 

As the night streams on around her, Sansa finds herself wedged between Margaery and Arianne, Loras reclining across the table. Talla and Jeyne have scurried off to the dance floor once they hear a song Jeyne loves, with the promise of bringing back another round of drinks when they get tired. Sansa tries to keep her hands to herself, but keeps getting distracted by the warmth of Margaery’s thigh pressed against hers in the tight squeeze. 

Loras eyes her from his spot, and his gaze glimmers icy blue in the dim lighting. Sansa can see how pretty he is, noticing it a bit more now that she doesn’t have the anxiety of the wedding crashing through her bloodstream the whole night. Loras has Margaery’s fine cheekbones and soft, tousled hair, and Sansa wonders for a moment if they’re twins. He tilts his head as he regards her, eyes skimming over the space - or distinct lack of space - between Sansa and his sister. The smile he gives her is faintly amused. 

“So, you and Marg are going to that Christmas party Robert Baratheon’s throwing?” Loras asks the question casually enough, but Sansa notices the little twinkle in his eye when he looks at Margaery for a second. 

She nods. “Yeah, we’re - uh, we’re going together.” Sansa still isn’t sure how far Margaery wants to push their “relationship” with people who are in on the con. 

“We’ll be the cutest couple at that party,” Margaery interjects, placing a soft hand on Sansa’s forearm. “The reign of Loras and Renly, hottest couple in King’s Landing, had to come to an end eventually.”

Loras rolls his eyes, but Sansa sees the smile that curls his mouth when Margaery mentions Renly. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you’ll be adorable.” He pauses, takes a sip of his old-fashioned, and smirks. “Joffrey doesn’t even have a date.” 

Sansa’s spine stiffens slightly, but the steady pressure of Margaery’s hand on her arm anchors her from spiralling off into unpleasant memories. She takes a neat sip of her mango drink (well, second mango drink) and tries to smirk back at Loras; it feels more like a grimace. “Can’t imagine any women in this city who would bother. The clout isn’t worth it.” 

Margaery snorts beside her. “He might still find someone desperate enough for an invite that they’ll agree to put up with him, but I pity the woman who finds herself in that predicament.” 

“To the woman who we might pity at the Christmas party,” Loras says, lifting his glass. 

“May she get the chance to hook up with Tyrion Lannister instead,” Arianne adds, giving her extra-dry martini a jaunty tip in Loras’ direction. “At least he can make good conversation.” 

“Who’re you bringing, Arianne?” Sansa asks, as she feels Loras’ gaze land back on her. His attention is beginning to make her a bit nervous. “Is Daemon still in town?”

“Ugh, yes,” Arianne says; Sansa swears she can see a slight flush rise to Arianne’s face as she leans back in her seat, rolling her eyes in melodramatic annoyance at Daemon Sand, the Dorne family friend she refuses to let any of them see now that the wedding is over. “But no, I’m - I’m taking Gerold Dayne, I think.”

“Really?” Margaery asks, surprise written all over her face. “Gerold Dayne?”

“He’s hot,” Arianne says with a shrug. “I’m bored. It’ll be fun.” 

“If you say so,” Margaery replies, though Sansa sees the confusion has not left her eyes as the subject moves on, away from Arianne and Gerold Dayne, Joffrey Baratheon and his desperation. 

“You know,” Margaery murmurs as they’re leaving the nightclub, just so Sansa can hear her over the din, “I think Loras is probably headed to Renly’s place after this. Did you want to have another sleepover?” 

Sansa nods, her smile wavering with nerves as she remembers the sight of Margaery asleep on her couch in the morning, the sunlight dropping softly across her softened features. “Yeah, sure.” 

“You can stay at mine this time if you want,” Margaery continues as they emerge from the bustling crowd onto the cool, clear night air of the curb. “I don’t want to just invite myself over.” They watch Loras duck into the car he took himself and Margaery here in. Arianne, Talla and Jeyne are lingering by the club’s doors, talking to some guy Talla met out on the dancefloor. Arianne keeps glancing at Sansa and Margaery, and Sansa wishes she wouldn’t; she’s being so much more conspicuous than usual. 

“Sure,” Sansa agrees, heart thumping wildly. “That’d be great.” 

“Great.” Margaery takes Sansa’s hand in hers and tugs her across the street, while Sansa waves goodbye to Arianne. The late-night darkness swallows her up as they reach the entrance to the subway station, but Sansa swears she saw Arianne wink at her. 

* * *

Margaery’s apartment is simple and warm, with lots of soft yellow lighting and cushy spots to curl up and nap in. Sansa can see the difference between this and her own place in King’s Landing: there’s something much more fixed in this apartment, Margaery having no intention of packing up and vanishing every few months. 

Sansa borrows a pair of Margaery’s pyjamas this time, and she finds a pair of soft blue flannel pants and a silky white t shirt laid out on the blankets for her to slip into when she heads into Margaery’s bedroom to change. Her bedroom. Sansa is startled for a moment, struck suddenly by the idea of Margaery asleep beneath these cloud-soft blankets, her long hair fanning out across the pillowcases. There’s a stack of books three-deep on the nightstand, and Sansa is only a little embarrassed when she stoops to read their spines. A poster of a watercolour Sansa saw in a museum last summer in Dorne is framed on the wall next to the window, and she lets herself take a delicate sniff of a scented candle on top of the dresser (cinnamony.) 

“Those look cute on you,” Margaery remarks when Sansa emerges, and she smiles, tries to hide her blush.

“Thanks.” Margaery is dressed down in sweatpants and an old King’s U shirt, and she’s placed two steaming mugs of cocoa on the coffee table. 

“Wanna do a face mask?”

Sansa lets Margaery pull out a few different little pots, and she laughs softly as Margaery holds each of them up for Sansa to smell. Sansa can recognize something of Arianne in Margaery’s actions: the way she smiles when Sansa goes along with her latest entertainment, her desire to put on a bit of a show in the way she amuses people. Sansa sits very still, cross-legged on Margaery’s couch, and lets her paint her face with a pale pink mask that smells like mint. 

Margaery’s fingertips are warm through the sudden cold of the mask, and Sansa shivers a bit at the feeling. Margaery just laughs under her breath as she continues her ministrations, talking quietly about Loras and Renly’s usual Christmas party antics and what Sansa can expect this year. 

“We’re going to knock their socks off,” Margaery says, her confidence infectious. She finishes with the mask, but Sansa doesn’t lean away from her. “I think we should do green. You look ravishing in green.” 

“You look ravishing in anything,” Sansa says without thinking. 

Margaery’s nose crinkles when she laughs, and Sansa leans her head back against the back of the couch, watching Margaery tie her own hair back to do a mask herself. When Margaery unscrews the pot of a dark blue mask, Sansa sits back up.

“Do you want me to do it?” She asks, tentative. 

Margaery grins, handing her the pot. Sansa scoops out a bit of the mask, and the glitter throughout it sparkles under the lamplight. She streaks it along Margaery’s cheek and resists the urge to lean over and kiss the other. 

“So, green?” 

“Green. Come shopping with me next weekend?” 

“I’d love to.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go !!!!! this is the second-last chapter of this fic, and the christmas party is coming up next !!!! that'll be fun and i'm hyped to write it <3 <3 
> 
> also tysm to everyone who has read this so far, sending love to all of you darlings <3 <3 <3 
> 
> hmu on tumblr @starmunches if you wanna yell, and @mallowswriting if you want to read other fics/one-shots

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is pouring out of me like no tomorrow baby, so expect it to be done soon lmao
> 
> also tysm for reading <3 <3 <3 i've never written a fake dating au before, but i'm starting to understand the appeal


End file.
